ward and upward, till
she stood, panting and puffing like a young grampus, on the top of Seat
Sandal, still all among the butcher boys and the farmer's men, and the
guides and the red-cheeked squireens, her frock torn to ribbons, her hat
lost in a ditch, her hair streaming down her back, and every inch of
her, from her nose downwards, splashed and spattered with mire and clay.
What a spectacle for gods and men, guides and butcher boys. And there
she stood with the sun going down beyond Coniston Old Man, and a
seven-mile walk between her and Fellside.

'Poor Lady Mary!' said Hammond, looking at her very kindly: but Mary did
not see that friendly glance, which betokened sympathy rather than
scorn. She sat silent and very red, with drooping eyelids, thinking her
brother horribly cruel for thus publishing her foolishness.

'Poor, indeed!' exclaimed Maulevrier. 'She came crawling home after
dark, footsore and draggled, looking like a beggar girl, and as evil
fate would have it, her ladyship, who so seldom goes out, must needs
have been taking afternoon tea at the Vicarage upon that particular
occasion, and was driving up the avenue as Mary crawled to the gate. The
storm that followed may be more easily imagined than described.'

'It was years and years ago,' expostulated Mary, looking very angry.
'Grandmother needn't have made such a fuss about it.'

'Ah, but in those days she still had hopes of civilising you,' answered
Maulevrier. 'Since then she has abandoned all endeavour in that
direction, and has given you over to your own devices--and me. Since
then you have become a chartered libertine. You have letters of mark.'

'I don't care what you call me,' said Mary. 'I only know that I am very
happy when you are at home, and very miserable when you are away.'

'It is hardly kind of you to say that, Lady Mary,' remonstrated Fraeulein
Mueller, who, up to this point, had been busily engaged with muffins and
gooseberry jam.

'Oh, I don't mean that any one is unkind to me or uses me badly,' said
Mary. 'I only mean that my life is empty when Maulevrier is away, and
that I am always longing for him to come back again.'

'I thought you adored the hills, and the lake, and the villagers, and
your pony, and Maulevrier's dogs,' said, Lesbia faintly contemptuous.

'Yes, but one wants something human to love,' answered Mary, making it
very obvious that there was no warmth of affection between herself and
the feminine members of he