“Where I live is no affair of yours, if I can not take my mother there,” the young woman answered, sullenly.  “Who I am, you know.  I told you I am this woman’s daughter.”

“And a gypsy, I take it?” said Mr. Green.

“You guess well, sir, but only half the truth.  Half gypsy I am, and half gentlewoman.  A mongrel, I suppose, that makes; and yet it is well to have good blood in one’s veins, even on the father’s side.”

There was a sneering emphasis in her words, and the snaky black eyes gleamed like daggers on the baronet.

But that proud face was set and rigid as stone now.  He returned her look with a haughty stare.

“It is a pity the whipping-post has been abolished,” he said, harshly.  “Your impertinence makes you a fit subject for it, mistress!  Take care we don’t commit you to prison as a public vagrant, and teach that tongue of yours a little civility when addressing your betters.”

“My betters!” the girl hissed, in a fierce, sibilant whisper.  “Why, yes, I suppose a daughter should look upon a father in that light.  As to the whipping-post and prison, try it at your peril!  Try it, if you dare, Sir Jasper.”

Before he could speak the door opened, and Dawson entered with the stretcher.

“Lay her upon it and remove her at once,” the rector said.  “Here, Humphreys, this side.  Gently, my men—­gently.  Be very careful on the way.”

The two men placed the seemingly lifeless form of Zenith on the stretcher and bore her carefully away.

The daughter Zara followed.

“She will not live until to-morrow morning,” the rector said; “and it is better so, poor soul!  She is evidently hopelessly insane.”

“And the daughter appears but little better.  By the way, Mr. Green, Lady Kingsland desires me to fetch you back to dinner.”

The rector bowed.

“Her ladyship is very good.  Has your carriage gone?  I will order out the pony-phaeton, if you like.”

Ten minutes later the two gentlemen were bowling along the pleasant country road leading to the Court.  It was a very silent drive, for the baronet sat moodily staring at vacancy, his mouth set in hard, wordless pain.

“They will tell Olivia,” he was thinking, gloomily.  “What will she say to all this?”

But his fears seemed groundless.  Lady Kingsland treated the matter with cool indifference.  To be sure, she had not heard quite all.  A madwoman had burst into the church, had terrified Lady Helen pretty nearly to death with her crazy language, and had tried to tear away the baby.  That was the discreet story my lady heard, and which she was disposed to treat with calm surprise.  Baby was safe, and it had ended in nothing; the madwoman was being properly cared for.  Lady Kingsland quietly dismissed the incident altogether before the end of dinner.

The hours of the evening wore on—­very long hours to the lord of Kingsland Court, seated at the head of his table, dispensing his hospitalities and trying to listen to the long stories of Mr. Carlyon and the rector.