Mrs. Greatorex was, in a ladylike sort of way, a confirmed gossip. To have told her so personally would have been to make her your enemy for life. The way she looked at it was far more Christian—she said "she took a kindly interest in her neighbours."

To-day her interest was particularly strong, if not very kindly; and she was now, from the depths of her low lounging chair, catechising Agatha about the dance last night. She was always very keen about any news that concerned the Firs-Robinsons, who were really nobodies, whilst she—-

Her grandfather had been an earl—out-at-elbows, it was true, but yet an earl. She laid great store by this, and periodically reminded her acquaintances of it. Her mother, Lady Winifred, had married (badly from a moneyed point of view) a young and reckless guardsman, who died three years after her marriage, leaving her all his debts and an infant daughter. But then he was one of the Engletons of Derbyshire, and would have come into a baronetcy if three uncles and five cousins had been removed.

Unfortunately, her husband predeceased his father! And when the old man (who detested her) followed him to the family vault three months later, it was found that she was not as much as mentioned in his will.

There had been no settlements. As there were no children, all the property went to the second son, Reginald Greatorex.

The sorest subject with Agatha's aunt was this brother-in-law. She had treated him very cavalierly during her short reign at Medlands, as wife of the elder son; and when Reginald came in for the property he remembered it. He portioned her off with as small a dowry as decency would allow.

He was testy, self-contained old bachelor—and the last of his race—though with a good point here and there. He had a been good, at all events, to John Dillwyn, whose father was the rector of his parish, and whose mother, some said, had been the one love of old Reginald's life. Both father and mother were dead now, and the young man, after a fierce struggle for existence in town, had passed all his exams, and was free to kill or cure, anywhere. It was when he stood triumphant, but friendless, that Mr. Greatorex had come forward, and got him his post at Rickton, where the former had a good deal of property, though Medlands itself lay in an adjoining county.

Mrs. Greatorex had received the young man coldly. Any one connected with Reginald must be distasteful to her. To do her justice, she had never truckled to her brother-in-law in any way, and had contented herself with undisguised hatred of him. Agatha had nothing to do with him, she thanked Heaven—otherwise she could not have supported existence with her. She came from her side of the house, where people had been officers and—-

"Mrs Darkham looked frightful," said Agatha. "She really did, poor woman! Fancy, such a gown—red satin and black velvet— and her face—-"

"As red as the satin, no doubt. But is it possible, Agatha, what you tell me—that Richard Browne is staying with those people?"

"Those people" were always the Firs-Robinsons with Mrs. Greatorex. The fact that they could have bought her up a thousand times over at any moment rankled in her mind. She could not forgive them that.

Still in some queer way she hankered after the Robinsons— desiring to know this and that about them, and being, as has been hinted, of a parsimonious turn of mind, did not refrain from accepting from them fruits and flowers and vegetables. Indeed, face to face with them she was delightful. She justified herself over this hypocritical turn, and explained herself to Agatha, by quoting St. Paul. "All things to all men" was a motto of his.

"Richard?" questioned Agatha, as if surprised. Indeed, Mrs. Greatorex was perhaps the only person of his acquaintance who called Mr. Browne "Richard." "Dicky, you mean?"

"Yes, of course. He was christened Richard, Agatha. That ought to count. His father's name is Richard."

"It is so funny to think of Dicky's having a father," said Agatha, laughing. "What kind is he, auntie?"

"A mummy! A modern mummy," said Mrs. Greatorex, laying down her sock. "A dandified mummy. All paint and wig and teeth—-"

"But a mummy! It wouldn't have—-"

"Yes, I know. But there's nothing in him! Nothing that is his own. He is padded and stuffed and perfumed! He"—indignantly— "ought to have died ten years ago, and yet now he goes about the world rejuvenated yearly. Only last month I had a letter from a friend of mine, saying Richard's father had come back from the German spas describing himself as 'a giant refreshed.' Just fancy that, at seventy-eight!"

"I always feel I could love old Mr. Browne," said Agatha, laughing still.

"You must have precious little to love," said her aunt, knitting vigorously. She had known old Mr. Browne in her youth.

Agatha's laughter came to a sudden end. She sprang to her feet.

"Here is Edwy Darkham," said Agatha, moving to the window—"and looking so wild! Aunt Hilda, do come here! Oh!"—anxiously— "surely there is something wrong with him."

Across the lawn, running uncouthly, hideously—rolling from side to side—yet with astonishing speed, the idiot came. His huge head was thrown up, and the beauty that was in his face when it was in repose was now all gone. He was mouthing horribly, and inarticulate cries seemed to be bursting from his lips.

Agatha struck by the great terror that so evidently possessed him, conquered all fear, and springing out of the low French window, ran to meet him.

At times she shrank from him—not always. Deep pity for him lay within her heart, because he was so docile, and because he clung to her so, poor thing! and seemed to find such comfort in her presence. She had been specially kind in her manner to his mother often because of him, and perhaps that kindness to her—the mother—whom the poor, handsome, ill-shapen idiot adored, had been the first cause of his affection for Agatha. She had always been good to Edwy, in spite of her detestation of his father, and now, when the unhappy creature was in such evident trouble—a trouble that rendered him a thousand times more repulsive than usual—she lost her fear of him, and ran down the balcony steps to meet him.

He was unhappy—this poor boy, whose soul was but an empty shell! What ailed him? All her young, strong, gentle heart went out to him.

"Edwy! Edwy!" cried she, as eloquently as though he could hear her.

He rushed to her, and caught her arm, and sank on his knees before her.

"Sho! Sho! Sho!" he yelled.

It was his one word. To him it meant "mother."

Agatha understood him. She pressed his poor head against her arm.

"What is it? What is it, Edwy?" asked she. There was quick anxiety in her tone.

Her voice was unheard by him, but his eyes followed hers and the movement of her lips. Some thread in his weak brain caught at the meaning of her words. His fingers clutched her and closed upon both her arms. The pain was excessive, almost beyond bearing, and Agatha tried to shake herself free. But after a first effort she checked herself. The agony in the poor boy's face, usually so expressionless, moved her so powerfully that she stood still, bearing the pain courageously.

She managed to lay her hand, however, on the large bony one (so singularly muscular) that was grasping her right arm, and after a moment or two Edwy relaxed his hold.

"Aunt Hilda," cried Agatha, turning to the window. "What can be the matter?" But Mrs. Greatorex, who had carefully taken refuge behind the window curtains, from which safety point she could see without being seen, declined to leave her shelter to solve the problem offered her.

"Send him away! send him away!" she screamed dramatically, safe in the knowledge that the idiot could not hear her. "He is going mad. I can see it in his eyes. He'll murder you if you encourage him any further. Get rid of him, Agatha, I implore you, before he does any mischief."

"Oh no, it isn't that. It is only that he is in terrible distress about something."

At this moment Edwy rose to his feet, and, approaching her, began to gesticulate violently and make loud guttural sounds. In vain Agatha tried to understand him. Finally, as if dimly aware that his cries and gestures conveyed no meaning to her, the idiot seized her by both arms and turned her in the direction from which he had just come. Then he waited a moment, but seeing her immovable, an access of fury seemed to take hold of him, and catching her by her arm and shoulder, he began to drag her forcibly along with him, so forcibly that Agatha felt she had no power to battle with him, and that it would be useless to resist.

She did resist, however, with all her might, useless as it was. She herself was young, strong, and lithe, but this squat, broad creature, over whose head she could look, held her powerless in his grasp.

With fierce impatience he hurried her forward, in spite of her now almost frantic struggles to free herself from the clasp of his long arms.

His eyes were always staring straight before him as though he were looking at something that affrighted him. His strength was superhuman, and he had now dragged Agatha with him half across the lawn. She could not reason with him, as he could not hear, and she felt her strength grow less every moment. Where was he going? Where was he taking her?

She looked down at the stunted figure beside her, at the rough, unkempt head. She felt the long, sinewy arms tighten round her, and suddenly a sensation of faintness overcame her. What was it her aunt had said? That he was mad! That he would murder somebody! Was he going to murder her?

By this time Mrs. Greatorex's terrified shrieks were resounding across the lawn. But the servants, two small maidens, were evidently too frightened to attempt a rescue. They hung back, and clung to each other, and whimpered sympathetically.

In the meantime Agatha had been dragged to the borders of the wood. Another minute would take her out of the view of those watching from the windows.