ting. So he got
his gun and cartridges, and in due course arrived at the Castle, to
find George and several myrmidons, in the shape of beaters and boys,
already standing in the yard.

"Please, Colonel, the Squire hopes you'll go in and have a glass of
summut before you start," said George; so accordingly he went, not to
"have a glass of summut," but on the chance of seeing Ida. In the
vestibule he found the old gentleman busily engaged in writing an
enormous letter.

"Hullo, Colonel," he halloaed, without getting up, "glad to see you.
Excuse me for a few moments, will you, I want to get this off my mind.
Ida! Ida! Ida!" he shouted, "here's Colonel Quaritch."

"Good gracious, father," said that young lady, arriving in a hurry,
"you are bringing the house down," and then she turned round and
greeted Harold. It was the first time they had met since the eventful
evening described a chapter or two back, so the occasion might be
considered a little awkward; at any rate he felt it so.

"How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?" she said quite simply, giving him
her hand. There was nothing in the words, and yet he felt that he was
very welcome. For when a woman really loves a man there is about her
an atmosphere of softness and tender meaning which can scarcely be
mistaken. Sometimes it is only perceptible to the favoured individual
himself, but more generally is to be discerned by any person of
ordinary shrewdness. A very short course of observation in general
society will convince the reader of the justice of this observation,
and when once he gets to know the signs of the weather he will
probably light upon more affairs of the heart than were ever meant for
his investigation.

This softness, or atmospheric influence, or subdued glow of affection
radiating from a light within, was clearly enough visible in Ida that
morning, and certainly it made our friend the Colonel unspeakably
happy to see it.

"Are you fond of shooting?" she asked presently.

"Yes, very, and have been all my life."

"Are you a good shot?" she asked again.

"I call that a rude question," he answered smiling.

"Yes, it is, but I want to know."

"Well," said Harold, "I suppose that I am pretty fair, that is at
rough shooting; I never had much practice at driven birds and that
kind of sport."

"I am glad of it."

"Why, it does not much matter. One goes out shooting for the sport of
the thing."

"Yes, I know, but Mr. Edward Cossey," and she shrank