Ravenshoe. By Henry Kingsley.

192 RAVENSHOE.
could not avoid stealing a glance up at the magnificent apparition
beside him; and, as he did so, he met a pair of kind, gray eyes
looking down on him.
"You mustn't sit and mope there, Horton," said the lieutenant; "it never does to mope. I know it is infernally hard to
help it; and of course you can't associate with servants, and that
sort of thing, at first; but you will get used to it. If you think
I don't know you are a gentleman, you are mistaken. I don't
know who you are, and shall not try to find out. I'11 lend you
books, or anything of that sort; but you must n't brood over it.
I can't stand seeing my fellows wretched, more especially a fellow like you."
If it had been to save his life, Charles couldn't say a word.
He looked up at the lieutenant, and nodded his head. The lieutenant understood him well enough, and said to himself, -
" Poor fellow i"
So there arose between these two a feeling which lightened
Charles's servitude, and which, before the end came, had grown
into a liking. Charles's vengeance was not for Hornby, for the
injury did not come from him. His vengeance was reserved for
another, and we shall see how he took it.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A GLIMPSE OF SOME OLD FRIENDS.
HITHERTO I have been able to follow Charles right on, without leaving him for one instant: now, however, that he is reduced
to sitting on a wheelbarrow in a stable-yard, we must see a little
less of him. He is, of course, our principal object; but he has
removed himself from the immediate sphere of all our other
acquaintances, and so we must look up some of them, and see
how far they, though absent, are acting on his destiny, - nay, we
must look up every one of them sooner or later, for there is not
one who is not in some way concerned in his adventures, past
and future.
By reason of her age, her sex, and her rank, my Lady Ascot
claimis our attention first. We left the dear old woman in a terrible taking, on finding that Charles had suddenly left the house
and disappeared. Her wrath gave way to tears, and her tears
to memory. Bitterly she blamed herself now for what seemed,