again--with the same note of explosion--after an interval. "It's
horrible--just _horrible_! All the way from Pengarth we've hardly seen a
house, or a light!--and we've been driving nearly an hour. You don't
expect me to _live_ here, Edmund!" The tone was hysterical.

"Don't be a fool, Netta! Doesn't it ever rain in your infernal country,
eh? This is my property, my dear, worse luck! I regret it--but here we
are. Threlfall has got to be my home--so I suppose it'll be yours too."

"You could let or sell it, Edmund!--you know you could--if you cared a
farthing about making me happy."

"I have every reason to think it will suit me perfectly--and you too."

The tone of the man which, hitherto, though mocking had been in the main
indulgent, had suddenly, harshly, changed. The wife dropped into the
corner of the carriage among her furs and wraps, and said no more.

In another quarter of an hour the carriage turned a corner of the road,
and came upon a tall building, of which the high irregular outline was
just visible through the growing darkness. In front of it stood a group
of men with lanterns, and the carriage stopped beside them.

A noise of tongues arose, and Mr. Melrose let down the window.

"Is this where the road is flooded?" he asked of a stout man in a whitish
coat and cap who had come forward to speak to the coachman.

"Aye, sir--but you'll get through. In an hour's time, mebbe ye couldn't
do it. The water fro' the mill-race is over t' road, but it's nobbut a