22 A JACOBITE EXILE

is coming, and it makes her very unhappy. One day I was
in the garden, and they were talking loudly in the dining-
room—at least he was talking loudly. Well, he said—But
I don’t know whether I ought to tell you, Charlie.”

“Certainly you ought not, Ciceley. If you heard what
you were not meant to hear you ought never to say a word
about it to anyone.”

“But it concerns you and Sir Marmaduke.”

“T cannot help that,” he said stoutly. “People often
say things of each other in private, especially if they are
out of temper, that they don’t quite mean, and it would
make terrible mischief if such things were repeated. What-
ever your father said I do not want to hear it, and it would |
be very wrong of you to repeat it.”

“T am not going to repeat it, Charlie. I only want to
say that I do not think my father and yours are very
friendly together, which is natural, when my father is all
for King William and your father for King James. He
makes no secret of that, you know.”

Charlie nodded. ‘That is right enough, Ciceley, but
still I don’t understand in the least what it has to do with
the servant.”

“Tt has to do with it,” she said pettishly, starting the
swing afresh, and then relapsing into silence until it again
came to a stand-still. “1 think you ought to know,” she
said suddenly. “You see, Charlie, Sir Marmaduke is very
kind to me, and I love him dearly, and so I do you, and I
think you ought to know, although it may be nothing at
all.”

“Well, fire away then, Ciceley. There is one thing you
may be quite sure of, whatever you tell me it is like telling
a brother, and I shall never repeat it to anyone.”

“Well, it is this. ‘That man comes over sometimes to see
my father. I have seen him pass my window three or four
times and go in by the garden door into father’s study. I