"Can hearts break, dear Aunt?"
"Oh, poor Diana, poor child—after all she has done for you—"
"Indeed, Aunt, she has done a great deal for me, I admit—but—"
"You know how she came in the dead of night to warn your uncles of your peril—your mad folly? You know this?"
"Yes, yes, dear Aunt," said I, a little impatiently. "I know, too, how my noble uncles very nearly quarrelled as to which of them should risk his life for unworthy, miserable me—"
"It was George rode away first that dreadful morning," said my aunt, clasping her shapely hands, "and I shall never forget the look on the face of Jervas when he found that George had stolen away before him—poor, brave Jervas!"
"Yes, Aunt! If the place of meeting had not been altered—it would have been—uncle George, perhaps."
"Ah, yes!" sighed my aunt, shuddering and bowing pale face above her clasped hands. "But Diana—saved you, Peregrine."
"At least, Aunt, she caused a better man to die in my stead. As he is to-day, I would be—at rest!"
"Hush, oh, hush, Peregrine, you talk wildly! Indeed, sometimes I think you have never been quite the same since your illness, you are so much colder—less kind and gentle. And now you mean to go away again! What of the estate—your tenants?"