ren."

"Then do not even wish to know it. It is an awful secret; and I must bear
it without sympathy of any sort, alone and in silence. It has been upon
me for some years now, taking the sweetness out of my daily bread; and it
will, I suppose, go with me to my grave. Not scarcely to lift it off my
shoulders, would I impart it to _you_."

She sighed deeply; and thought it must be connected with some of his
youthful follies. But she loved him still; she had faith in him; she
believed that he went wrong from misfortune more than from fault.

"Courage, Val," she whispered. "There is a better world than this,
where sorrow and sighing cannot enter. Patience--and hope--and trust in
God!--always bearing onwards. In time we shall attain to it."

Lord Hartledon gently drew his hands away, and turned to the window for a
moment's respite. His eyes were greeted with the sight of one of his own
servants, approaching the Rectory at full speed, some half-dozen idlers
behind him.

With a prevision that something was wrong, he said a word of adieu to
Mrs. Ashton, went down, and met the man outside. Dr. Ashton, who had seen
the approach, also hurried out.

There had been some accident in the Park, the man said. The pony had
swerved and thrown little Lord Elster: thrown him right under the other
pony's feet, as it seemed. The servant made rather a bungle over his
news, but this was its substance.

"And the result? Is he much hurt?" asked Lord Hartledon, constraining his
voice to calmness.

"Well, no; not hurt at all, my lord. He was up again soon, saying he'd
lash the pony for throwing him. He don't seem hurt a bit."

"Then why need you have alarmed us so?" interrupted Dr. Ashton,
reprovingly.

"Well, sir, it's her ladyship seems hurt--or something," cried the man.

Lord Hartledon looked at him.

"What have you come to tell, Richard? Speak out."

Apparently Richard could not speak out. His lady had been frightened and
fainted, and did not come to again. And Lord Hartledon waited to hear no
more.

The people, standing about in the park here and there--for even this
slight accident had gathered its idlers together--seemed to look at Lord
Hartledon curiously as he passed them. Close to the house he met Ralph
the groom. The boy was crying.

"'Twasn't no fault of anybody's, my lord; and there ain't any damage to
the ponies," he began, hastening to excuse himself. "The little lord only
slid off, and they stood as quiet as quie