"Oh, Percival, don't be so angry with me," said Kitty, with the tears in her eyes. "Indeed, I scarcely meant to speak; but I did wish you to understand beforehand----"

"What?"

"I don't think she wants to marry you." And then Kitty glanced up from under her thick, curling lashes, and was startled at the set and rigid change which suddenly came over her brother's features. She dared not say any more, and for some minutes they drove on in silence. Presently, Percival turned round to her with an icy sternness in his voice.

"You should not say such things unless you have authority from Elizabeth to say them. Did she tell you to do so?"

"No, no, indeed she did not," cried Kitty, "and, of course, I may be mistaken; but I came to see you, Percival, on purpose to tell you."

"No woman is happy unless she is making mischief," said her brother, grimly.

"You ought not to say that, Percival; it is not fair. And I must say what I came to say. Elizabeth is very unhappy about something. I don't know what; and after all her goodness to us you ought to be careful that you are not making her do anything against her will."

"Did you ever know Elizabeth do anything against her will?"

"Against her wishes, then," said Kitty, firmly, "and against the dictates of her heart."

"'These be fine words, indeed!'" quoted Percival, with a savage laugh.

"And who has taught you to talk about the 'dictates of her heart?' Leave Elizabeth and me to settle our affairs between ourselves, if you please.

We know our duty to each other without taking advice from a little schoolgirl."

Kitty stifled a sob. "If you break Elizabeth's heart," she said, vehemently, "you can't say I didn't warn you."

Percival looked at her, stifled a question at the tip of his tongue, and clutched his newspaper viciously. It occurred to him that Kitty knew something, that she would never have uttered a mere vague suspicion; but he would not ask her a direct question. No, Elizabeth's face and voice would soon tell him whether she was unhappy.

He was right. Kitty had seen the parting between Brian and Elizabeth; and she had guessed a great deal more than she saw. She spoke out of no desire to make mischief, but from very love for her cousin and care for her happiness; but when she noted Percival's black brows she doubted whether she had done right.

Percival did not speak again throughout the drive. He sat with his eyes bent on his newspaper, his hand playing with his moustache, a frown on his handsome face. It was not until the carriage stopped at the door of Strathleckie, and he had given his hand to Kitty to help her down that he opened his lips.

"Don't repeat what you have said to me to any other person, please."

"Of course not, Percival."

There was no time for more. The barking of dogs, the shouts of children, the greeting of Mr. Heron, prevented anything further. Percival looked round impatiently. But Elizabeth was not there.

He was tired, although he would not confess it, with his night journey; and a bath, breakfast, and change of clothes did not produce their usual exhilarating effect. He found it difficult to talk to his father or to support the noise made by the children. Kitty's hint had put his mind into a ferment.

"Can these boys not be sent to their lessons?" he said, at last, knitting his brows.

"Oh, don't you know?" said Harry, cutting a delighted caper. "We have holidays now. Mr. Stretton has gone away. He went away a fortnight ago, or nearly three weeks now."

Percival looked suddenly at Kitty, who coloured vividly.

"Why did he go?" he asked.

"I'm sure I can't tell you," said Mr. Heron, almost peevishly. "Family affairs, he said. And now he has gone to South America. I don't understand it at all."

Neither did Percival.

"Where is Elizabeth?" said Mr. Heron, looking round the room as if in search of her. "She can't know that Percival has come: go and tell her, one of you boys."

"No, never mind," said Percival, quickly; but it was too late, the boy was gone.

There was a little silence. Percival sat at one side of the whitely-draped table, with a luxurious breakfast before him and a great bowl of autumn flowers. The sunshine streamed in brightly through the broad, low windows; the pleasant room was fragrant with the scent of the burning wood upon the fire; the dogs wandered in and out, and stretched themselves comfortably upon the polished oak floor. Kitty sat in a cushioned window-seat and looked anxious; Mr. Heron stood by the fireplace and moved one of the burning logs in the grate with his foot.

A sort of constraint had fallen over the little party, though nobody quite knew why; and it was not dispelled, even when Harry's footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and he threw open the door for Elizabeth.

Percival threw down his serviette and started up to meet her. And then he knew why his father and sister looked uncomfortable. Elizabeth was changed; it was plain enough that Elizabeth must be ill.

She was thinner than he had ever seen her, and her face had grown pale.

But the fixed gravity and mournfulness of her expression struck him even more than the sharpened contour of her features or the dark lines beneath her eyes. She looked as if she suffered: as if she was suffering still.

"You are ill!" he said, abruptly, holding her by the hand and looking down into her face.

"That's what I've been saying all along!" muttered Mr. Heron. "I knew he would be shocked by her looks. You should have prepared him, Kitty."

"I have had neuralgia, that is all," said Elizabeth, quietly.

"Strathleckie does not suit you; you ought to go away," remarked Percival, devouring her with his eyes. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

"Nothing: I am perfectly well; except for this neuralgia," she said, with a faint, vexed smile. "Did you have a comfortable journey, and have you breakfasted?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Then you will come out with me for a little stroll? I want to show you the grounds; and the others can spare you to me for a little while," she went on, with perfect ease and fluency. The only change in her manner was its unusual gravity, and the fact that she did not seem able to meet Percival's eye. "Are you too tired?"

"Not at all." And they left the room together.

She took him down the hill on which the house stood, by a narrow, winding path, to the side of a picturesque stream in the valley below.

He had seen the place before, but he followed her without a word until they reached a wooden seat close to the water's edge, with its back fixed to the steep bank behind it. The rowan trees, with their clusters of scarlet berries, hung over it, and great clumps of ferns stood on either hand. It was an absolutely lonely place, and Percival knew instinctively that Elizabeth had brought him to it because she could here speak without fear of interruption.

"It is a beautiful place, is it not?" she said, as he took his seat beside her.

He did not answer. He rather disdained the trivial question. He was silent for a few minutes, and then said briefly:--

"Tell me why you wanted me."

"I have been unhappy," she said, simply.

"That is easy to be seen."

"Is it? Oh, I am sorry for that. But I have had neuralgia. I have, indeed. That makes me look pale and tired."

Percival threw his arm over the back of the seat with an impatient motion, and looked at the river. "Nothing else?" he asked, drily. "It seems hardly worth while to send for me if that was all. The doctor would have done better."

"There is something else," said Elizabeth, in so quiet and even a voice as to sound almost indifferent.

"Well, I supposed so. What is it?"

"You are making it very hard for me to tell you, Percival," said she, with one of her old, straight glances. "What is it you know? What is it you suspect?"