She returned his look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed.
His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty of pity was needed at home.

"Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he murmured.
"I think you had better go," said Isabel.

"I'll write to you." "Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know." And then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak.

"There's one thing more," he went on.

"You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it's damp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles of it.