The sensible girl blushed at his praise, but she said, dryly, “How meritorious!  Cousin Walter, I have heard that flattery is poison.  I won’t stay here to be poisoned—­so.”  She finished the sentence in action; and with a movement of her body she started her Arab steed, and turned her challenging eye back on Walter, and gave him a hand-gallop of a mile on the turf by the road-side.  And when she drew bridle her cheeks glowed so and her eyes glistened, that Walter was dazzled by her bright beauty, and could do nothing but gaze at her for ever so long.

If Hope had been at home, Mary would have been looked after more sharply.  But if she was punctual at meals, that went a long way with Robert Bartley.

However, the accidental and frequent meetings of Walter and Mary, and their delightful rides and walks, were interfered with just as they began to grow into a habit.  There arrived at Clifford Hall a formidable person—­in female eyes, especially—­a beautiful heiress.  Julia Clifford, great-niece and ward of Colonel Clifford; very tall, graceful, with dark gray eyes, and black eyebrows the size of a leech, that narrowed to a point and met in finer lines upon the bridge of a nose that was gently aquiline, but not too large, as such noses are apt to be.  A large, expressive mouth, with wonderful rows of ivory, and the prettiest little black down, fine as a hair, on her upper lip, and a skin rather dark but clear, and glowing with the warm blood beneath it, completed this noble girl.  She was nineteen years of age.

Colonel Clifford received her with warm affection and old-fashioned courtesy; but as he was disabled by a violent fit of gout, he deputed Walter to attend to her on foot and horseback.

Miss Clifford, accustomed to homage, laid Walter under contribution every day.  She was very active, and he had to take her a walk in the morning, and a ride in the afternoon.  He winced a little under this at first; it kept him so much from Mary.  But there was some compensation.  Julia Clifford was a lady-like rider, and also a bold and skillful one.

The first time he rode with her he asked her beforehand what sort of a horse she would like.

“Oh, anything,” said she, “that is not vicious nor slow.”

“A hack or a hunter?”

“Oh, a hunter, if I may.”

“Perhaps you will do me the honor to look at them and select.”

“You are very kind, and I will.”

He took her to the stables, and she selected a beautiful black mare, with a coat like satin.

“There,” said Walter, despondingly.  “I was afraid you would fix on her.  She is impossible, I can’t ride her myself.”

“Vicious?”

“Not in the least.”

“Well, then—­”

Here an old groom touched his hat, and said, curtly, “Too hot and fidgety, miss.  I’d as lieve ride of a boiling kettle.”

Walter explained:  “The poor thing is the victim of nervousness.”