to see people burning their fingers for
nothing: I always want to go to their rescue. He is tiresome, but he
is very nice. And, heigh-ho! what a crooked world we live in!--nothing
goes quite straight in it." And Phillis sighed again.

"Miss Challoner!" The voice sounded so near her that Phillis gave a
great start. She had nearly reached the gate, and there was Mr. Dancy
walking beside her, just as though he had emerged from the ground; and
yet Phillis had not heard a sound. "Have I startled you?" he
continued, gravely. "You were in such a brown study that I had to call
you by your name to rouse you. There is nothing wrong at the White
House, I hope?"

"Oh, no! Mrs. Cheyne is better: her nervous attack has quite passed
off."

"Magdalene suffering from a nervous attack?" and then Mr. Dancy
stopped, and bit his lip. "Excuse me, I knew her before she was
married, when she was Magdalene Davenport--before she and poor Herbert
Cheyne unfortunately came together. I doubt whether things have not
happened for the best; there!--I mean," as Phillis looked at him in
some perplexity, "that there is little fear of her being an
inconsolable widow."

"How can you say such a thing!" returned Phillis, indignantly. "That
is the way with you men, you judge so harshly of women. Mrs. Cheyne is
singular in her ways. She wears no mourning, and yet a more unhappy
creature never existed on this earth. Not inconsolable!--and yet no
one dares to speak a word of comfort to her, so great is her misery."

"Excuse me one moment: I have been ill, and am still subject to fits
of giddiness. A mere vertigo; nothing more." But he said the words
gasping for breath, and looked so deadly pale that Phillis felt quite
frightened as she stood beside him.

They had been walking a few steps down the Braidwood Road, and Phillis
had looked out anxiously for Nan, who had not yet appeared in sight.
But now Mr. Dancy had come to an abrupt pause, and was leaning for
support against the low wall that shut in the grounds of the White
House. Phillis looked at him a little curiously, in spite of her
sympathy. He still wore his loose cloak, though the evening was warm;
but he had loosened it, and taken off his felt hat for air.

In figure he was a tall, powerful-looking man, only thin and almost
emaciated, as though from recent illness. His features were handsome,
but singularly bronzed and weather-beaten, as though from constant
exposure to sun and wind; and even th