on't let
nobody drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness; but for my part, I
think it's a pity to drink good rum when your mouth's out o' taste; you
may just as well hev doctor's stuff. However, Dorkis got her to bed, an'
there she's lay iver sin', stoopid like, an' niver speaks, an' on'y teks
little bits an' sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An' we begun to be
frightened, and couldn't think what had made her come away from the
Manor, and Dorkis was afeared there was summat wrong. So this mornin' she
could hold no longer, an' would hev no nay but I must come an' see; an'
so I've rode twenty mile upo' Blackbird, as thinks all the while he's
a-ploughin', an' turns sharp roun', every thirty yards, as if he was at
the end of a furrow. I've hed a sore time wi' him, I can tell you, sir.'

'God bless you, Knott, for coming!' said Mr. Gilfil, wringing the old
coachman's hand again. 'Now go down and have something and rest yourself.
You will stay here to-night, and by-and-by I shall come to you to learn
the nearest way to your house. I shall get ready to ride there
immediately, when I have spoken to Sir Christopher.'

In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare
towards the little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter.
Once more he saw some gladness in the afternoon sunlight; once more it
was a pleasure to see the hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be
conscious of a 'good seat' while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, and
the air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina was not dead; he had
found her; his love and tenderness and long-suffering seemed so strong,
they must recall her to life and happiness.

After that week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it carried
his hopes at once as far as the utmost mark they had ever reached.
Caterina would come to love him at last; she would be his. They had been
carried through all that dark and weary way that she might know the depth
of his love. How he would cherish her--his little bird with the timid
bright eye, and the sweet throat that trembled with love and music! She
would nestle against him, and the poor little breast which had been so
ruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore. In the love of a brave
and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal tenderness; he
gives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were shed on him
as he lay on his mother's knee. It was twilight as he entered the village
of C