The weeks glided by, Drake's arm got mended, but he still lingered on at Shorne Mills.

There was something in the beauty, the repose, of the place which fascinated and held him. He was so weary of the world, sore with disappointment, and shrinking from the pity of his friends who were, as he knew, dying to commiserate with him over his altered prospects.

The weather was lovely, the air balmy, and for amusement—well, there was sailing in the Annie Laurie, lounging with a pipe on the jetty, listening, and sometimes talking, to the fishermen and sailors, and teaching Miss Nell Lorton to ride.

"Not that you need much teaching," he said on the first day they rode together—that was before his arm was quite right, and Mrs. Lorton filled the air with her fears and anxieties for his safety. "But you have 'picked it up,' as they say, and there are one or two hints I may be able to give you which will make you as perfect a horsewoman as one would wish to see."

"Isn't 'perfect' rather a big word?" said Nell.

She turned her face to him, and the glory of its young beauty was heightened by the radiance of the smile which was enthroned on her lips and shone in her eyes.

He looked at her with unconscious admiration and in silence for a moment.

"There is no reason why you shouldn't be perfect," he said. "You've everything in your favor—youth, health, strength, and no end of pluck."

"I ought to curtsy," said Nell, laughing softly. "But one can't curtsy on a horse, alas! Please let me off with a bow," and she bent low in the saddle, with all a girl's pretty irony. "But don't be sparing of those same hints, please. I really want to learn, and I will be very humble and meek."

He laughed, as if amused by something.

"I can scarcely fancy you either humble or meek, Miss Nell," he said. "Hold the reins a little nearer her neck. Like this. See? Then you've room to pull her if she stumbles; which, by the way, isn't likely. And you might sit a little closer at the canter. Don't trouble; leave the pace to the horse."

Nell nodded.

"I know!" she said. "How just being told a thing helps one! I should like to ride as well as you do. You and the horse seem one."

He was not embarrassed by the compliment.

"Oh, I've ridden all my life," he said, "and under all sorts of circumstances, on all sorts of horses, and one gets au fait in time. Now, let her have her head and we'll try a gallop. Don't bear too hard on her if she pulls—as she may—but ride her on the snaffle as much as possible."

They had climbed the hill, and were riding along a road on the edge of one of the small moors, and after a moment or two of inspection of the graceful figure beside him, he motioned with his hand, and they turned on to the moor itself.

As they cantered and galloped over the springy turf and heather, Drake grew thoughtful and absent-minded.

The beauty of the scene, the azure sky, the clear, thin air, all soothed him; but he found himself asking himself why he was still lingering in this out-of-the-way spot in North Devon, and why he was content with the simple amusement of teaching a young girl to sit her horse and hold her reins properly.

Why was he not on board the Seagull, which Lord Turfleigh had left in Southampton waters, or in Scotland shooting grouse, with one of the innumerable house parties to which he had been invited, and at which he would have been a welcome guest, or climbing the Alps with fellow members of the Alpine Club?

So they were silent as they rode over this green-and-violet moor, over which the curlew flew wailingly, as if complaining of this breach of their solitude.

And Nell was thinking, or, rather, musing; for though she was taking lessons, she was too good a rider to be absorbed in the management of her horse.

Had she not scampered over these same moors on a half-wild Exmoor pony, bare-backed, and with a halter for a bridle?

She was thinking of the weeks that had passed since the man who was riding beside her had been flung at her feet, and wondering, half unconsciously, at the happiness of those weeks. There had scarcely been a day in which he and she had not walked or sailed, or sat on the quay together. She recalled their first sail in the Annie Laurie; there had been many since then; and he had been so kind, so genial a companion, that she had begun to feel as if he were an old friend, a kind of second Dick.

At times, it was true, he was silent and gloomy, not to say morose; but, as a rule, he was kind, with a gentle, protective sort of kindness which, believe me, is duly appreciated by even such a simple, unsophisticated girl as Nell.

As she rode beside him, she glanced now and again at the handsome face, which was grave and lined with thought, and she wondered, girllike, upon what he was musing.

Suddenly he turned to her.

"Yes, you don't need much teaching," he said, with a smile. "You ride awfully well, as it is. With a little practice—you won't forget about holding the reins a little farther; from you?—you will ride like Lady Lucille herself."

"Who is Lady Lucille?" she asked.

He looked just a shade embarrassed for a moment, but only for a moment.

"Oh, she's the crack fashionable rider," he said casually.

"I feel very much flattered," said Nell. "And I am very grateful for your lesson. I hope you won't discontinue them because I show some promise."

He looked at her with sudden gravity. Now was the time to tell her that he was going to leave Shorne Mills.

"You won't want many more," he said; "but I hope you will let me ride with you while I'm here. I must be going presently."

"Must you?" she said.

Girls learn the art of mastering their voices much earlier than the opposite sex can, and her voice sounded indifferent enough, or just properly regretful.

He nodded.

"Yes, I must leave Shorne Mills, worse luck."

"If it is so unlucky, why do you go? But why is it so unlucky?" she asked; and still her tone sounded indifferent.

"It's bad luck because—well, because I have been very happy here," he said, checking his horse into a walk.

She glanced at him as she paced beside him.

"You have been so happy here? Really? That sounds so strange. It is such a dull, quiet place."

"Perhaps it's because of that," he said. "God knows, I'm not anxious to get back to London—the world."

She looked at him thoughtfully with her clear, girlish eyes; and he met the glance, then looked across the moor with something like a frown.

"There is a fascination in the place," he said. "It is so beautiful and so quiet; and—and—London is so noisy, such a blare. And——"

He paused.

She kept the high-bred mare to a walk.

"But will you not be glad to go?" she asked. "It must be dull here, as I said. You must have so many friends who—who will be glad to see you, and whom you will be glad to see."

He smiled cynically.

"Friends!" he said grimly. "Has any one many friends? And how many of the people I know will, I wonder, be glad to see me? They will find it pleasant to pity me."

"Pity you! Why?" she asked, her beautiful eyes turned on him with surprise.

Drake bit his lip.

"Well, I've had a piece of bad luck lately," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" murmured Nell.

He laughed grimly.

"Oh, it's no more than I had a right to expect. Don't forget what I told you about holding your reins—that's right."

"Is it about money?" she asked timidly. "I always think bad luck means that."

He nodded.

"Yes; I've lost a great deal of money lately," he replied vaguely. "And—and I must leave Shorne Mills."

"I am sorry," she said simply, and without attempting to conceal her regret. "I—we—have almost grown to think that you belonged here. Will you be sorry to go?"

He glanced at her innocent eyes and frowned.

"Yes; very much," he replied. "There is a fascination in this place. It is so quiet, so beautiful, so remote, so far away from the world which I hate!"

"You hate? Why do you hate it?" she asked.

He bit his lip again.

"Because it is false and hollow," he replied. "No man—or woman—thinks what he or she says, or says what he or she thinks."

"Then why go back to it?" she asked. "But all the people in London can't be—bad and false," she added, as if she were considering his sweeping condemnation.

"Oh, not all," he said. "I've been unfortunate in my acquaintances, perhaps, as Voltaire said."

He looked across the moor again absently. Her question, "Then why go back to it?" haunted him. It was absurd to imagine that he could remain at Shorne Mills. The quiet life had been pleasant, he had felt better in health here than he had done for years; but—well, a man who has spent so many years in the midst of the whirl of life is very much like the old prisoner of the Bastille who, when he was released by the revolutionary mob, implored to be taken back again. One gets used to the din and clamor of society as one gets used to the solemn quiet of a prison. Besides, he was, or had been, a prominent figure in the gallantry show, and he seemed to belong to it.

"One isn't always one's own master," he said, after a pause.

Nell turned her eyes to him.

"Are not you?" she said, a little shyly. "You seem so—so free to do just what you please."

He laughed rather grimly.

"Do you know what I should do if I were as free as I seem, Miss Nell?" he asked. "I should take one of these farms"—he nodded to a rural homestead, one of the smallest and simplest, which stood on the edge of the moor—"and spend the rest of my life making clotted cream and driving cows and pigs to market."

She laughed.

"I can scarcely imagine you doing that," she said.

"Well, I might buy a trawler, and go fishing in the bay."

"That would be better," she admitted. "But it's very tough weather sometimes. I have seen the women waiting on the jetty, and on the cliffs, and looking out at the storm, with their faces white with fear and anxiety for the men—their fathers and husbands and sweethearts."

"There wouldn't be any women to watch and grow white for me," he remarked.

"Oh, but don't you think we should be anxious—mamma and I?" she said.

He looked at her, but her eyes met his innocently, and there was not a sign of coquetry in her smile.

"Thanks. In that case, I must abandon the idea of getting my livelihood as a fisherman," he said lightly. "I couldn't think of causing Mrs. Lorton any further anxiety."

"Shall we have another gallop?" she asked, a moment or two afterward. "We might ride to that farm there"—she pointed to a thatched roof just visible above a hollow—"and get a glass of milk. I am quite thirsty."

She made the suggestion blithely, as if neither her own nor his words had remained in her mind; and Drake brightened up as they sped over the springy turf.

A woman came out of the farm, and greeted them with a cordial welcome in the smile which she bestowed on Nell, and the half nod, half curtsy, she gave to Drake.

"Why, Miss Nell, it be yew sure enough," she said pleasantly. "I was a-thinkin' that 'eed just forgot us. Bobby! Bobby! do 'ee come and hold the horses. Here be Miss Nell of Shorne Mills."

A barefooted, ruddy-cheeked little man ran out and laughed up at Nell as she bent down and stroked his head with her whip. Nell and Drake dismounted, and she led the way into the kitchen and living room of the farm.

The room was so low that Drake felt he must stoop, and Nell's tall figure looked all the taller and slimmer for its propinquity to the timbered ceiling. The woman brought a couple of glasses of milk and some saffron cakes, and Nell drank and ate with a healthy, unashamed appetite, and apparently quite forgot Drake, who, seated in the background, sipped his milk and watched and listened to her absently. She knew this woman and her husband and the children quite intimately; asked after the baby's last tooth as she bent over the sleeping mite, and was anxious to know how the eldest girl, who was in service in London, was getting on.

"Well, Emma, her says she likes it well enough," replied the woman, standing, with the instinctive delicacy of respect, with her firm hand resting on the spotlessly white table; "leastways her would if there was more air—it's the want o' air she complains of. Accordin' to she, there bean't enough for the hoosts o' people there be. Oh, yes, the family's kind enough to her—not that she has much to do wi' 'em; for she's in the nursery—she's nursemaid, you remembers, Miss Nell—and the mistress is too grand a lady to go there often. It's a great family she's in, you know, Miss Nell, a titled family, and there's grand goin's-on a'most every day; indeed, it's turnin' day into night they're at most o' the time, so says Emma. She made so bold, Emma did, to send her best respects to you in her last letter, and to say she hoped if ever you came to London she'd have the luck to see you, though it might be from a distance."

Nell nodded gratefully.

"Not that I am at all likely to go to London," she said, with a laugh. "If I did, I should be sure to go and see Emma."

Emma's mother glanced curiously at Drake; and he understood the significance of the glance, but Nell was evidently unconscious of its meaning.

"And this is the gentleman as is staying at the cottage, Miss Nell?" she said. "I hope your arm's better, sir?"

Drake made a suitable and satisfactory response, and Nell, having talked to the two little girls, who had got as near to her as their shyness would permit, rose.

"Thank you so much for the milk and cakes, Mrs. Trimble," she said. "We were quite famishing, weren't we?"

"Quite famished," assented Drake.

Mrs. Trimble beamed.

"You be main welcome, Miss Nell, as 'ee knows full well; I wish 'ee could ride out to us every day. And that's a beautiful horse you're on, miss, surely!"

"Isn't it?" said Nell. "It's Mr. Vernon's; he is kind enough to lend it to me."

Mrs. Trimble glanced significantly again at Drake; but again Nell failed to see or understand the quick, intelligent question in the eyes.

"Speakin' o' Emma, I've got her letter in my pocket, Miss Nell; and I'm thinkin' I'll give it 'ee; for the address, you know. It's on the top, writ clear, and if you should go to London——"

Nell took the precious letter, and put it with marked carefulness in the bosom of her habit.

"I shall like to read it, Mrs. Trimble. Emma and I were such good friends, weren't we? And I'll be sure to let you have it back."

The whole of the family crowded out to see Miss Nell of Shorne Mills drive off, and Drake had to maneuver skillfully to get a coin into Bobby's chubby, and somewhat grubby, hand unseen by Nell.

They rode on in silence for a time. The scene had impressed Drake. The affection of the whole of them for Nell had been so evident, and the sweet simplicity of her nature had displayed itself so ingenuously, that he felt—well, as he had felt once or twice coming out of church.

Then he remembered the woman's significant glance, and his conscience smote him. No doubt all Shorne Mills was connecting his name with hers. Yes; he must go.

She was singing softly as she rode beside him, and they exchanged scarcely half a dozen sentences on the way home; but yet Nell seemed happy and content, and as she slipped from her saddle in front of the garden gate, she breathed a sigh of keen pleasure.

"Oh, I have enjoyed it so much!" she said, as he looked at her inquiringly. "Is there anything more beautiful and lovable than a horse?"

As she spoke, she stroked the mare's satin neck, and the animal turned its great eyes upon her with placid affection and gratitude. Drake looked from the horse to the girl, but said nothing, and at that moment Dick came out to take the horses down to the stables.

"Had a good ride, Nell?" he asked. "Wants a lot of coaching, doesn't she, Mr. Vernon? But I assure you I've done my best with her; girls are the most stupid creatures in the world; and the last person they'll learn anything from is their brother."

Nell managed to tilt his cap over his eyes as she ran in, and Dick looked after her longingly, as he exclaimed portentously:

"That's one I owe you, my child."

Nell laughed back defiantly; but when she had got up to her own room, and was taking off the habit, something of the brightness left her face, and she sighed.

"I am sorry he is going," she murmured to her reflection in the glass. "How we shall miss him; all of us, Dick and mamma! And I shall miss him, too. Yes; I am sorry. It will seem so—so dull and dreary when he has gone. And he does not seem glad to go. But perhaps he only said that to please me, and because it was the proper thing to say. Of course, I—we—could not expect him to stay for the rest of his life in Shorne Mills."

She sighed again, and stood, with her habit half unbuttoned, looking beyond the glass into the past few happy weeks. Yes, it would seem very dull and dreary when he was gone.

But he still lingered on; his arm got well, his step was strong and firm, his voice and manner less grave and moody. He rode or sailed with her every day, Dick sometimes accompanying them; but he was only postponing the hour of his departure, and putting it away from him with a half-hesitating hand.

One afternoon, Dick burst into the sitting room—they were at tea—with a couple of parcels; one, a small square like a box, the other, a larger and heavier one.

"Just come by the carrier," he said; "addressed to 'Drake Vernon, Esquire.' The little one is registered. The carrier acted as auxiliary postman, and wants a receipt."

Drake signed the paper absently, with a scrawl of the pen which Dick brought him, and Dick, glancing at the signature mechanically, said:

"Well, that's a rum way of writing 'Vernon'!"

Drake looked up from cutting the string of the small box, and frowned slightly.

"Give it me back, please," he said, rather sharply. "It isn't fair to write so indistinctly."

Dick handed the receipt form back, and Drake ran his pen quickly through the "Selbie" which he had scrawled unthinkingly, and wrote Drake Vernon in its place.

Dick took the altered paper unsuspectingly to the carrier.

"So kind of you to trouble, Mr. Vernon!" said Mrs. Lorton. "As if it mattered how you wrote! My poor father used to say that only the illiterate were careful of their handwriting, and that illegible caligraphy—it is caligraphy, is it not?—was a sign of genius."

"Then I must be one of the greatest geniuses that ever lived," said Drake.

"And I'm another—if indifferent spelling is also a sign," said Dick cheerfully; "and Nell must cap us both, for she can neither write nor spell; few girls can," he added calmly. "Tobacco, Mr. Vernon?" nodding at the box.

By this time Drake had got its wrapper off and revealed a jewel case. He handed it to Mrs. Lorton with the slight awkwardness of a man giving a present.

"Here's a little thing I hope you will accept, Mrs. Lorton," he said.

"For me!" she exclaimed, bridling, and raising her brows with juvenile archness. "Are you sure it's for me? Now, shall I guess——"

"Oh, no, you don't, mamma," said Dick emphatically. "I'll open it if you can't manage it. Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, as Mrs. Lorton opened the case, and the sparkle of diamonds was emitted.

Mrs. Lorton echoed his exclamation, and her face flushed with all a woman's delight as she gazed at the diamond bracelet reposing on its bed of white plush.

"Really——My dear Mr. Vernon!" she gasped. "How—how truly magnificent! But surely not for me—for me!"

He was beginning to get, if not uncomfortable, a little bored, with a man's hatred of fuss.

"I'm afraid there's not much magnificence about it," he said, rather shortly. "I hope you like the pattern, style, or whatever you call it. I had to risk it, not being there to choose. And there's a gun in that case, Dick."

Dick made an indecent grab for the larger parcel, and, tearing off the wrapper, opened the thick leather case and took out a costly gun.

"And a Greener!" he exclaimed. "A Greener! I say, you know, sir——"

He laughed excitedly, his face flushed with delight, as he carried the gun to the window.

"Is it not perfect, simply perfect, Eleanor?" said Mrs. Lorton, holding out her arm with the bracelet on her wrist. "Really, I don't think you could have chosen a handsomer one, Mr. Vernon, if you had gone to London to do so."

"I am glad you are pleased with it," he said simply.

"Pleased? It is perfect! Eleanor, haven't you a word to say? No; I imagine you are too overwhelmed for words," said Mrs. Lorton, with a kind of cackle.

"It is very beautiful, mamma," she said gravely; and her face, as she leaned over the thing, was grave also.

Drake looked at her as he rose, and understood the look and the tone of her voice, and was glad that he had resisted the almost irresistible temptation to order a somewhat similar present for her.

"I say, sir, you must get your gun down, and we must go for some rabbits," said Dick eagerly. "And I can get a day or two's shooting over the Maltby land as soon as the season opens. I'm sure they'd give it me."

"That's tempting, Dick," said Drake; "and it adds another cause to my regret that I am leaving to-morrow."

"Leaving to-morrow!" exclaimed Mrs. Lorton, with a gasp. "Surely not! You are not thinking, dreaming of going, my dear Mr. Vernon?"

"It's very good of you," he said, picking up his cap and nearing the door. "But I couldn't stay forever, you know. I've trespassed on your hospitality too much already."

"Oh, I say, you know!" expostulated Dick, in a deeply aggrieved tone. "I say, Nell, do you hear that? Mr. Vernon's going!"

"Miss Nell knows that I have been 'going' for some days past, only that I haven't been able to tear myself away. It's nearly five, Miss Nell, and we ordered the boat for half-past four, you know," he added, in a matter-of-fact way.

She rose and ran out of the room for her jacket and tam-o'-shanter, and they went out, leaving Mrs. Lorton and Dick still gloating over their presents.