"Thank you, my lord," said Sparling, "I've been very well; but I was

much upset to hear of your lordship's accident, and very sorry you

wouldn't let me come to you."

The man spoke with genuine sympathy and regret, for he was attached to

Drake, and was fully convinced that he had the best, the handsomest, and

the most desirable master in all England.

"Thanks; very much," said Drake; "but it was nothing to speak of, and

there was no reason for dragging you down there. There wasn't any

accommodation, to tell the truth, and you'd have moped yourself to

death."

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"You're looking very well, my lord--a little thinner, perhaps," said

Sparling respectfully.

Drake sighed at the naïve retort, then sighed unaccountably.

"Oh, I've done some fishing, boating, and riding," he said, "and I'm

pretty fit--fitter than I've been for some time. There's an awful pile

of letters, I see."

"Yes, my lord; you told me not to send them on. Will your lordship dine

at home to-night?"

Drake replied in the affirmative, had a bath, and changed, and sat down

to one of the daintily prepared dinners which were the envy and despair

of his bachelor friends. It was really an admirable little dinner; the

claret was a famous one from the Anglemere cellars, and warmed to a

nicety; the coffee was perfection; Sparling's ministrations left nothing

to be desired; and yet Drake sank into his easy-chair after the meal

with a sigh that was weary and wistful.

There had never been anything more than soup and a plain joint, with a

pudding to follow, at the dinners at The Cottage; but the simple meal

had been rendered a pleasant one by Dick's cheerful and boyish nonsense;

and whenever Drake looked across the table, there had been Nell's sweet

face opposite him, sometimes grave with a pensive thoughtfulness, at

others all alight with merriment and innocent, girlish gayety.

His room to-night seemed very dull and lonely. It was strange; he had

never been bored by his own society before; he had rather liked to dine

alone, to smoke his cigarette with the evening paper across his knee or

a book on the table beside him. He tried to read; but the carefully

edited paper, with its brilliant articles, its catchy little paragraphs,

and its sparkling gossip, didn't interest him in the least. He dropped

it, and fell to wondering, to picturing, what they were doing at that

precise moment at The Cottage. Mrs. Lorton, no doubt, was sitting in her

high-backed chair reading the _Fashion Gazette_; Dick was lounging just

outside the window, smoking a cigarette, mending his rod, and whistling

the last comic song. And Nell--what was Nell doing? Perhaps she was

playing softly one of the pieces he had grown fond of; or leaning half

out of the window squabbling affectionately with the boy.




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