"If you ask me, I think so," replied the imperturbable Jeffrey, as he
led away the horses.

Sir John strode into the house by the backway, which opened on to the
stable-yard. Taking the lantern that stood by the door, he went along
galleries and upstairs to the sitting-chamber above the hall, which,
since her mother's death, his daughter had used as her own, for here
he guessed that he would find her. Setting down the lantern upon the
passage table, he pushed open the door, which was not latched, and
entered.

The room was large, and, being lighted only by the great fire that
burned upon the hearth and two candles, all this end of it was hid in
shadow. Near to the deep window-place the shadow ceased, however, and
here, seated in a high-backed oak chair, with the light of the blazing
fire falling full upon her, was Cicely Foterell, Sir John's only
surviving child. She was a tall and graceful maiden, blue-eyed,
brown-haired, fair-skinned, with a round and child-like face which
most people thought beautiful to look upon. Just now this face, that
generally was so arch and cheerful, seemed somewhat troubled. For this
there might be a reason, since, seated upon a stool at her side, was a
young man talking to her earnestly.

He was a stalwart young man, very broad about the shoulders, clean-cut
in feature, with a long, straight nose, black hair, and merry black
eyes. Also, as such a gallant should do, he appeared to be making love
with much vigour and directness, for his face was upturned pleading with
the girl, who leaned back in her chair answering him nothing. At this
moment, indeed, his copious flow of words came to an end, perhaps from