in Joyce's ear, which
no one else heard. Her usual vivacity and quick, sharp words seemed to
have suddenly failed her.

"Yes; I'll take her to bed, and there she will have to lie all
to-morrow, I expect. It's the last time I'll allow her to separate from
the rest of us, when we are out on an excursion. Order the supper in,
boys; and Melville, look after your friend; he is as white as a ghost;
perhaps he has seen one!"

The tone was a little bitter and satirical. Mrs. Falconer resented the
hours' keen anxiety she had endured, and was inclined to lay the fault
on Gilbert.

He certainly did look exhausted, and leaned back with his head against
the wall, over which a large stag's head with spreading antlers gazed
down upon him with liquid, meaningless eyes.

"Mother," Joyce said, as, with her brother's arm round her, she rose to
go upstairs; "mother, Mr. Arundel was so very brave; he was thrown down
by that dreadful man and nearly stunned; he carried me till we met
father; he was--he was--so good to me. Do pray thank him." Then
disengaging herself from her mother's grasp, Joyce tottered across to
the old oak chair, on which Gilbert had sunk. "Good-night, and
good-bye," she said; "and don't think them ungrateful. Good-bye."

He stood upright, and took one of her hands in his, raised it reverently
to his lips; and so they parted.

He was off the next morning early to catch the coach at Wells. Not this
time in a post-chaise with scarlet-clad post-boy, but driven by the
squire himself, in a high gig, his portmanteau strapped behind. Melville
roused himself to come down in a magnificent flowered dressing-gown, to
see him off; and the boys were all there. Just as the gig was starting,
Mrs. Falconer appeared. It was unusual for her to be later than her
household, but she had a good reason, for Joyce had passed a restless
night, and she had not liked to leave her. She was asleep now, she said,
and a day's rest would restore her.

"I hope we shall see you here again," Mrs. Falconer added, "before long.
But you won't be trusted on the Mendips again, I can tell you!"

"Let bygones be bygones, that's my motto," said the squire, as the gig
went swinging out through the white gates near the house, and turned
into the road which led through the village.

"And 'all's well that ends well,'" Gilbert said, as he waved his hat in
token of farewell.

That evening, when the squire and his wife were alone together, Mrs.
Falconer sai