The Squire's Daughter - Silas K. Hocking

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way that she loved him; but he was not so blind as not to see that there was no passion in her love. In truth, she did not know what love was.

      He was none the less anxious, however, on that account, to make her his wife, but rather the more. The fact that the best part of his life was gone made him all the more eager to fill up what remained with delight. He might reckon upon another ten years of life, at least, and to possess Dorothy for ten years would be worth living for—worth growing old for.

      "You expect Dorothy back soon?" Lord Probus questioned, dropping into an easy-chair.

      "Any minute, my lord. In fact, I expected her back before this."

      "Jess has been well broken in. I was very careful on that point." And his lordship looked uneasily out of the window.

      "And then, you know, Dorothy could ride an antelope or a giraffe. She is just as much at ease in a saddle as you are in that easy-chair."

      "Do you know, I get more and more anxious as the time draws near," his lordship said absently. "It would be an awful blow to me if anything should happen now to postpone the wedding."

      "Nothing is likely to happen," Sir John said grimly, but with an apprehensive look in his eyes. "Dorothy is in the best of health, and so are you."

      "Well, yes, I am glad to say I am quite well. And Dorothy, you think, shows no sign of rueing her bargain?"

      "On the contrary, she has begun to count the days." And Sir John walked to the window and raised the blind a little.

      "I shall do my best to make her happy," his lordship said, with a smile. "And, bachelor as I am, I think I know what girls like."

      "There's no doubt about that," was the laughing answer. "But who comes here?" And Sir John ran to the door and stepped out on the terrace.

      A boy without coat, and carrying his cap in his hand, ran eagerly up to him. His face was streaming with perspiration, and his eyes ready to start out of their sockets.

      "If you please, sir," he said, in gasps, "your little maid has been and got killed!"

      "My little maid?" Sir John questioned. "Which maid? I did not know any of the servants were out."

      "No, not any servant, sir; but your little maid, Miss Dorothy."

      "My daughter!" he almost screamed. And he staggered up against the porch and hugged one of the pillars for support.

      "Thrown from her horse, sir, down agin Treliskey Plantation," the boy went on. "Molly Udy says she reckons her neck's broke."

      Sir John did not reply, however. He could only stand and stare at the boy, half wondering whether he was awake or dreaming.

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      Ralph Penlogan's first impulse was to rush off into St. Goram and rouse the village; but on second thoughts he dropped on his knees by the side of the prostrate girl, and placed his ear close to her lips. For a moment or two he remained perfectly still, with an intent and anxious expression in his eyes; then his face brightened, and something like a smile played round the corners of his lips.

      "No, she is not dead," he said to himself. And he heaved a great sigh of relief.

      But he still felt doubtful as to the best course to take. To leave the unconscious girl lying alone by the roadside seemed to him, for some reason, a cruel thing to do. She might die, or she might return to consciousness, and find herself helpless and forsaken, without a human being or even a human habitation in sight.

      "Oh, I hope she will not die," he said to himself, half aloud, "for if she does I shall feel like a murderer." And he put his ear to her lips a second time.

      No, she still breathed, but the rivulet of blood seemed to be growing larger.

      He raised her gently and let her head rest against his knee while he examined the wound underneath her auburn hair. He tried his best to repress a shudder, but failed. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and proceeded to bind it tightly round her head. How pale her face was, and how beautiful! He had never seen, he thought, so lovely a face before.

      He wondered who she was and where she lived.

      The horse whinnied a little distance away, and again the question darted through his mind, What was he to do? If he waited for anyone to pass that way he might wait a week. The road was strictly private, and there was a notice up that trespassers would be prosecuted. It had been a public road once—a public road, indeed, from time immemorial—but Sir John had put a stop to that. In spite of protests and riots, and threatened appeals to law, he had won the day, and no man dared walk through the plantation now without first asking his consent.

      "She can't be very heavy," Ralph thought, as he looked down into her sweet, colourless face. "I'll have to make the attempt, anyhow. It's nearly two miles to St. Goram; but perhaps I shall be able to manage it."

      A moment or two later he had gathered her up in his strong arms, and, with her bandaged head resting on his shoulder, and her heart beating feebly against his own, he marched away back over the broken gate in the direction of St. Goram. Jess gave a feeble whinny, then followed slowly and dejectedly, with her nose to the ground.

      Half a mile away the ground dipped into a narrow valley, with a clear stream of water meandering at the bottom.

      Ralph laid down his burden very gently and tenderly close to the stream, with her head pillowed on a bank of moss. He was at his wits' end, but he thought it possible that some ice-cold water sprinkled on her face might revive her.

      Jess stood stock-still a few yards away and watched the operation. Ralph sprinkled the cold water first on her face, then he got a large leaf, and made a cup of it, and tried to get her to drink; but the water trickled down her neck and into her bosom.

      She gave a sigh at length and opened her eyes suddenly. Then she tried to raise her head, but it fell back again in a moment.

      Ralph filled the leaf again and raised her head.

      "Try to drink this," he said. "I'm sure it will do you good." And she opened her lips and drank.

      He filled the leaf a third time, and she followed him with her eyes, but did not attempt to speak.

      "Now, don't you feel better?" he questioned, after she had swallowed the second draught.

      "I don't know," she answered, in a whisper. "But who are you? And where am I?"

      "You have had an accident," he said. "Your horse threw you. Don't you remember?"

      She closed her eyes and knitted her brows as if trying to recall what had happened.

      "It was close to Treliskey Plantation," he went on, "and the gate was shut. You told me to open it, and I refused. I was a brute, and I shall never forgive myself so long as I live."

      "Oh yes; I remember," she said, opening her eyes slowly, and the faintest suggestion of a smile played round her ashen lips. "You took offence because——"

      "I was a brute!" he interjected.

      "I ought not to have spoken as I did," she said, in a whisper. "I had no right to command you. Do—do you think I shall die?"

      "No, no!" he cried, aghast. "What makes you ask such a question?"

      "I feel so strange," she answered, in the same faint whisper, "and I have no strength even to raise my head."

      "But you will get better!" he said eagerly. "You must get better—you must! For my sake,

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