The Real Charlotte. 157 



It was a curious wood— very old, judging by its scattered 

 knots of hoary, weather-twisted pine-trees ; very young, 

 judging by the growth of ash saplings and slender larches 

 that made dense every inch of space except where rides had 

 been cut through them for the woodcock shooting. Francie 

 walked along the quiet path, thinking little of the beauty 

 that surrounded her, but unconsciously absorbing its rich 

 harmonious stillness. The little grey rabbits did not hear 

 her coming, and hopped languidly across the path, "for all 

 the world like toys from Robinson's," thought Francie ; the 

 honeysuckle hung in delicious tangle from tree to tree ; the 

 wood-pigeons crooned shrilly in the fir-trees, and every now 

 and then a bumble-bee started from a clover blossom in the 

 grass with a deep resentful note, as when one plucks the 

 lowest string of a violoncello. She had noticed a triple 

 wheel-track over the moss and primrose leaves of the path, 

 and vaguely wondered what had brought it there ; but at a 

 turn where the path took a long bend to the lake she was 

 no longer left in doubt. Drawn up under a solemn pine- 

 tree near the water's edge was Sir Benjamin's bath-chair, 

 and in it the dreaded Sir Benjamin himself, vociferating at 

 the top of his cracked old voice, and shaking his oaken staff 

 at some person or persons not apparent. 



Francie's first instinct was flight, but before she had time 

 to turn, her host had seen her, and changing his tone of 

 fury to one of hideous affability he called to her to come 

 and speak to him. Francie was too uncertain as to the 

 exact extent of his intellect to risk disobedience, and she 

 advanced tremblingly. 



*' Come here, Miss," said Sir Benjamin, goggling at her 

 through his gold spectacles. "You're the pretty little 

 visitor, and I promised I'd take you out driving in my 

 carriage and pair. Corne here and shake hands with me 

 Miss. Where's your manners ? " 



This invitation was emphasised by a thump of his stick 

 on the floor of the chair, and Francie, with an almost 

 prayerful glance round for James Canavan, was reluctantly 

 preparing to comply with it, when she heard Garry's voice 

 caUing her. 



** Miss Fitzpatrick ! Hi ! Come here ! " 



Miss Fitzpatrick took one look at the tremulous, irritable 



