The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. He must know she’ll be at a convent. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. And nothing to tell her where to begin. “Girls. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved.
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