The room was dim, and she thought it vacant. There was an old leather
chair which she loved, which had always stood beside the glass doors
that gave upon the sunset, in whose worn depths she had, as a child,
told herself fairy tales, and found escape from childish woes. She went
straight to it now, sank into its old arms, and pressed her cheek
against the cool leather. She closed her eyes, and sat very still, and
tried to ease the throbbing of her heart. Some one coughed, and she
looked up to find her Uncle Edward regarding her from his own favourite
chair.

"I did not know you were there," she exclaimed. "I thought the room was
empty. What are you reading?"

"A Treatise on Hospitality," answered Major Churchill, with great
dryness. "I suppose Dick is making posset in his best racing cup? How is
the interesting patient?"

Jacqueline coloured. "Uncle Dick--"

"Uncle Dick," interrupted the Major, "is the best of fellows, but he is
not perspicacious. I am, and I say again, why the deuce did this damned
Republican get himself thrown at our very gates? In my day a horse might
act a little gaily, but a man kept his seat!"

Jacqueline coloured more deeply. "It was that bad place on the hill
road. I do not suppose that Mr. Rand is a poor horseman."

"Who said that he was?" demanded the Major testily. "A poor horseman! He
and his old wolf of a father used to break all the colts for twenty
miles round! That place in the road! Pshaw! I've ridden by that place in