"Has Mr. Callaway not come yet, Nora?"
"I have seen nothing of him, Mr. George."
George took out his watch: the one bequeathed him by his father. It was only a silver one—as Mr. Ryle had remarked—but George valued it as though it had been set in diamonds. He would wear that watch and no other as long as he lived. His initials were engraved on it now: G. B. R. standing for George Berkeley Ryle.
"If Callaway cannot keep his appointment better than this, I shall beg him not to make any more with me," he remarked. "The last time he kept me waiting three-quarters of an hour."
"Have you seen Jim Sanders this morning?" asked Nora.
"I saw him in the stables as I rode out."
"I should like to find him!" said Nora. "He is skulking somewhere. I have had to churn myself."
"Where's Roger?"
"Roger couldn't hinder his time indoors to-day. Mr. George, what's up at Trevlyn Hold again about Rupert?" resumed Nora, turning from her butter to glance at George.
"Why do you ask?"