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“What is your remarkable little friend doing?” asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. “What is it all about?”

“Really, I can’t tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!”

Mary laughed.

“How ridiculous! He’s going out of the gate. Isn’t he coming back today?”

“I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to guess what he’ll do next.”

“Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?”

“I honestly don’t know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness.”

“I see.”

In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad.

It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.

“You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me.”

I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn’t thought⁠—But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove