Derrick, much against the grain, I fancy, had to talk to Freda, who, in her winter furs and close-fitting velvet hat, looked more fascinating than ever, while the old man descanted to me on Bath waters, antiquities, etc., in a long-winded way that lasted all up the hill.

We made our way into the cemetery and mounted the tower stairs, thinking of the past when this dreary place had been so gorgeously furnished.

Here Derrick contrived to get ahead with Sir Richard, and Freda lingered in a sort of alcove with me.
"I have been so wanting to see you," she said, in an agitated voice.
"Oh, Mr.Wharncliffe, is it true what I have heard about the Major?
Does he drink ?" "Who told you ?" I said, a little embarrassed.
"It was our landlady," said Freda; "she is the daughter of the Major's landlady.

And you should hear what she says of Derrick! Why, he must be a downright hero! All the time I have been half despising him"-- she choked back a sob--"he has been trying to save his father from what was certain death to him--so they told me.

Do you think it is true ?" "I know it is," I replied gravely.
"And about his arm--was that true ?" I signed an assent.
Her grey eyes grew moist.
"Oh," she cried, "how I have been deceived and how little Lawrence appreciates him! I think he must know that I've misjudged him, for he seems so odd and shy, and I don't think he likes to talk to me." I looked searchingly into her truthful grey eyes, thinking of poor Derrick's unlucky love-story.
"You do not understand him," I said; "and perhaps it is best so." But the words and the look were rash, for all at once the colour flooded her face.