quiet, rainy evening came, and it had all calmed down again, there was no bearing it.  The house—­without you—­was like a tomb.  If I had had Arnold with me I might have done very well.  But I was all by myself.  Think of that!  Not a soul to speak to!  There wasn’t a horrible thing that could possibly happen to you that I didn’t fancy was going to happen.  I went into your empty room and looked at your things. That settled it, my darling!  I rushed down stairs—­carried away, positively carried away, by an Impulse beyond human resistance.  How could I help it?  I ask any reasonable person how could I help it?  I ran to the stables and found Jacob.  Impulse—­all impulse!  I said, ’Get the pony-chaise—­I must have a drive—­I don’t care if it rains—­you come with me.’  All in a breath, and all impulse!  Jacob behaved like an angel.  He said, ‘All right, miss.’  I am perfectly certain Jacob would die for me if I asked him.  He is drinking hot grog at this moment, to prevent him from catching cold, by my express orders.  He had the pony-chaise out in two minutes; and off we went.  Lady Lundie, my dear, prostrate in her own room—­too much sal volatile.  I hate her.  The rain got worse.  I didn’t mind it.  Jacob didn’t mind it.  The pony didn’t mind it.  They had both caught my impulse—­especially the pony.  It didn’t come on to thunder till some time afterward; and then we were nearer Craig Fernie than Windygates—­to say nothing of your being at one place and not at the other.  The lightning was quite awful on the moor.  If I had had one of the horses, he would have been frightened.  The pony shook his darling little head, and dashed through it.  He is to have beer.  A mash with beer in it—­by my express orders.  When he has done we’ll borrow a lantern, and go into the stable, and kiss him.  In the mean time, my dear, here I am—­wet through in a thunderstorm, which doesn’t in the least matter—­and determined to satisfy my own mind about you, which matters a great deal, and must and shall be done before I rest to-night!”

She turned Anne, by main force, as she spoke, toward the light of the candles.

Her tone changed the moment she looked at Anne’s face.

“I knew it!” she said.  “You would never have kept the most interesting event in your life a secret from me—­you would never have written me such a cold formal letter as the letter you left in your room—­if there had not been something wrong.  I said so at the time.  I know it now!  Why has your husband forced you to leave Windygates at a moment’s notice?  Why does he slip out of the room in the dark, as if he was afraid of being seen?  Anne!  Anne! what has come to you?  Why do you receive me in this way?”

At that critical moment Mrs. Inchbare reappeared, with the choicest selection of wearing apparel which her wardrobe could furnish.  Anne hailed the welcome interruption.  She took the candles, and led the way into the bedroom immediately.