not half so courageous as you were, Honor! I would not have met
Power Magill at such an hour and in such a place for any consideration.
You were--if you will let me say so--recklessly brave to do such a
thing."

The light from the open door streams out, and she looks up at him as he
speaks. His face is ghastly pale, and his tone is angry and scornful.
She realizes for the first time how strange her rash act must appear in
the eyes of this fastidious Englishman. The women of his world would
never have done such a thing, she knows; but that does not trouble
her--it is the scornful surprise on his face that cuts her so cruelly.

"Never mind," she says to herself, suppressing a sob as they go up the
steps together. "I am not a fine London lady, and I don't wish to be;
if the pater and the boys are content with me as I am that is enough.
It is nothing to me what this man thinks."

Brian is almost past conscious thought just now; but he hides his pain
bravely till they get into the house and he has seen the great doors
fastened securely; then he sinks down exhausted, and Honor sees, by the
blood on his sleeve, that he has been wounded.

Instantly the whole place is in confusion. A messenger is sent off at
once to the chief constable at Drum and another fetches Doctor
Symmonds, who when he arrives finds his patient very low indeed.

"It is not the wound," he explains to the squire, "it is the loss of
blood that has done the mischief. A little longer, and the poor fellow
would have bled to death; as it is, he will need the greatest care to
pull him through."

* * * * *

"My dear Honor, I do wish you would try to like him!" Belle Delorme
says, looking up at her friend with pretty pleading eyes. "I'm sure
he's awfully fond of you--any one can see that."

"And he's rich--why don't you tell me that?" Honor returns scornfully.
"Every one's head seems to be turned by the man's money--even the
pater's."

"Your head is not turned," Belle observes dryly, "nor your heart
either, unfortunately."

"Tell me one thing," says Honor, facing her friend suddenly--"do you
think this George Cantrill is as nice as Launce?"

"As nice as Launce? Well, no, I don't; but then"--gravely--"you don't
often see any one who is quite as nice as Launce, do you, dear?"

"I intend to wait till I do, then," Honor retorts.

"Brian Beresford was nearly as nice," Belle says demurely, looking
innocently at Honor; "