"Yes, I should, Miss Pamela. So Mick is engaged to your sister. What an ass I have been!"
"Yes, poor dears, they are engaged, without the remotest prospect of ever being married that I can see. Mick's a subaltern in a line regiment, with just his pay—he got in through the Militia—and Molly, needless to say, hasn't a penny."
"He's a lucky fellow, all the same. And now, Miss Pamela, what have we been quarrelling about?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Sir Anthony. Have we been quarrelling?"
"I have."
"But I haven't. I did think you were a little cross about something. But here is the Wishing Well that I told you about."
They had come on a little glade of the forest, in the midst of which was a brier heavy with blackberries. The bush hooded a little space, and, looking underneath, one saw, as in a cup, a still depth of water over pebbles of gold and silver.
"You are to drink, Sir Anthony, without spilling a drop, and think on your wish at the same time."
"Drink from what, Miss Pamela?"
"Why, from your hands, of course."