Having made up his mind to stay at Fellside until after Easter, Maulevrier settled down very quietly — for him. He rode a good deal, fished a little, looked after his dogs, played billiards, made a devout appearance in the big square pew at St. Oswald’s on Sunday mornings, and behaved altogether as a reformed character. Even his grandmother was fain to admit that Maulevrier was improved, and that Mr. Hammond’s influence upon him must be exercised for good and not for evil.

‘I plunged awfully last year, and the year before that,’ said Maulevrier, sitting at tea in her ladyship’s morning room one afternoon about a week after his return, when she had expressed her gracious desire that the two young men should take tea with her.

Mary was in charge of the tea-pot and brass kettle, and looked as radiant and as fresh as a summer morning. A regular Gainsborough girl, Hammond called her, when he praised her to her brother; a true English beauty, unsophisticated, a little rustic, but full of youthful sweetness.

‘You see, I didn’t know what a racing stable meant,’ continued Maulevrier, mildly apologetic —‘in fact, I thought it was an easy way for a nobleman to make as good a living as your City swells, with their soft goods or their Brummagem ware, a respectable trade for a gentleman to engage in. And it was only when I was half ruined that I began to understand the business; and as soon as I did understand it I made up my mind to get out of it; and I am happy to say that I sold the very last of my stud in February, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. So you may welcome the prodigal grandson, and order the fatted calf to be slain, grandmother!’

Lady Maulevrier stretched out her left hand to him, and the young man bent over it and kissed it affectionately. He felt really touched by her misfortunes, and was fonder of her than he had ever been before. She had been somewhat hard with him in his boyhood, but she had always cared for his dignity and protected his interests: and, after all, she was a noble old woman, a grandmother of whom a man might be justly proud. He thought of the painted harridans, the bare-shouldered skeletons, whom some of his young friends were obliged to own in the same capacity, and he was thankful that he could reverence his father’s mother.

‘That is the best news I have heard for a long time, Maulevrier,’ said her ladyship graciously; ‘better medicine for my nerves than any of Mr. Horton’s preparations. If Mr. Hammond’s advice has influenced you to get rid of your stable I am deeply grateful to Mr. Hammond.’

Hammond smiled as he sipped his tea, sitting close to Mary’s tray, ready to fly to her assistance on the instant should the brazen kettle become troublesome. It had a threatening way of hissing and bubbling over its spirit lamp.

‘Oh, you have no idea what a fellow Hammond is to lecture,’ answered Maulevrier. ‘He is a tremendous Radical, and he thinks that every young man in my position ought to be a reformer, and devote the greater part of his time and trouble to turning out the dirty corners of the world, upsetting those poor dear families who like to pig together in one room, ordering all the children off to school, marrying the fathers and mothers, thrusting himself between free labour and free beer, and interfering with the liberty of the subject in every direction.’

‘All that may sound like Radicalism, but I think it is the true Conservatism, and that every young man ought to do as much, if he wants this timeworn old country to maintain its power and prosperity,’ answered Lady Maulevrier, with an approving glance at John Hammond’s thoughtful face.

‘Right you are, grandmother,’ returned Maulevrier, ‘and I believe Hammond calls himself a Conservative, and means to vote with the Conservatives.’

Means to vote! An idle phrase, surely, thought her ladyship, where the young man’s chance of getting into Parliament was so remote.

That afternoon tea in Lady Maulevrier’s room was almost as cheerful as the tea-drinkings in the drawing-room, unrestrained by her ladyship’s presence. She was pleased with her grandson’s conduct, and was therefore inclined to be friendly to his friend. She could see an improvement in Mary, too. The girl was more feminine, more subdued, graver, sweeter; more like that ideal woman of Wordsworth’s, whose image embodies all that is purest and fairest in womanhood.

Mary had not forgotten that unlucky story about the fox-hunt, and ever since Hammond’s return she had been as it were on her best behaviour, refraining from her races with the terriers, and holding herself aloof from Maulevrier’s masculine pursuits. She sheltered herself a good deal under the Fr?ulein’s substantial wing, and took care never to intrude herself upon the amusements of her brother and his friend. She was not one of those young women who think a brother’s presence an excuse for a perpetual tête-à-tête with a young man. Yet when Maulevrier came in quest of her, and entreated her to join them in a ramble, she was not too prudish to refuse the pleasure she so thoroughly enjoyed. But afternoon tea was her privileged hour — the time at which she wore her prettiest frock, and forgot to regret her inferiority to Lesbia in all the graces of womanhood.

One afternoon, when they had all three walked to Easedale Tarn, and were coming back by the side of the force, picking their way among the grey stones and the narrow threads of silvery water, it suddenly occurred to Hammond to ask Mary about that queer old man he had seen on the Fell nearly a fortnight before. He had often thought of making the inquiry when he was away from Mary, but had always forgotten the thing when he was with her. Indeed, Mary had a wonderful knack of making him forget everything but herself.

‘You seem to know every creature in Grasmere, down to the two-year-old babies,’ said Hammond, Mary having just stopped to converse with an infantine group, straggling and struggling over the boulders. ‘Pray, do you happen to know a man called Barlow, a very old man?’

‘Old Sam Barlow,’ exclaimed Mary; ‘why, of course I know him.’

She said it as if he were a near relative, and the question palpably absurd.

‘He is an old man, a hundred, at least, I should think,’ said Hammond.

‘Poor old Sam, not much on the wrong side of eighty. I go to see him every week, and take him his week’s tobacco, poor old dear. It is his only comfort.’

‘Is it?’ asked Hammond. ‘I should have doubted his having so humanising a taste as tobacco. He looks too evil a creature ever to have yielded to the softening influence of a pi............