"I think it is time all you children ran away to nurse," says Julia, in
answer to an agonized glance from both girls.

"It was Portia," says the Boodie to Dicky Browne, in her sweet innocent
treble. "Dulce said first he was a 'knight,' and then Portia said he was
a 'meek maid.' She said something, too, about 'port,' but I don't think
she meant Uncle Christopher's port; I think she meant Stephen's."

Deadly silence follows this bombshell. As Mr. Gower, only the day
before, had been reading the "Canterbury Tales" for them in his very
best old English style, it is impossible to believe the two quotations
from them, used in the morning, are not now alive in his memory.

Gower colors, and looks questioningly at Dulce. His expression is not
altogether one of chagrin. The child had said she (Dulce) had called
him a knight--"a veray parfit gentil knight" it must have been. There is
comfort, and even gladness in this thought; so much comfort, that he
even feels inclined to forgive Portia for comparing him to a "mayde."
Still, some awkwardness is naturally felt by all--except the Boodie, who
yawns indifferently, and finally follows the other children up to the
nursery--and every one is vainly trying to think of some commonplace
remark, that, when uttered, shall have the effect of restoring
conversation once more into a safe channel, when an interruption occurs
that puts chagrin and awkwardness out of their minds for the rest of the
evening.

First upon the air the reports of two guns being fired off quickly, one
after the other; then the quick flinty sound of a horse's galloping
hoofs.

Nearer they came, and still nearer, with that mad haste belonging to
them, that suggests unmanageable fury in the brute beast; and as all on
the balcony rise simultaneously and press forward to see what may be
coming, Bess and the dog-cart turn the corner near the chestnut tree,
and dash onwards towards the lower lawn.

Sir Christopher, grim and as full of rage as the animal in whose power
he now finds himself, is still holding the reins--but more for form's
sake than anything else, as he has no control whatever over the
infuriated chestnut, that, with reddened nostrils, and foam-covered
flanks, is rushing madly down the green slope.

A sudden rise in the velvet lawn, causing the dog-cart to sway rather
much to one side, unseats the groom, who is flung somewhat heavily to
the ground. Being fortunately, however, unhurt, he rises hastily,