's solitary cow, last
representative of a once well-stocked farm, browsed in a dignified
seclusion. The days were slow, and oh, how lengthy! and yet there was a
fever in Vixen's blood which made it seem to her as if time were
hurrying on at a breathless break-neck pace.

"The day after to-morrow he will be married," she said to herself, on
the morning of the thirtieth. "By this time on the day after to-morrow,
the bride will be putting on her wreath of orange blossoms, and the
church will be decorated with flowers, and there will be a flutter of
expectation in all the little villages, from one end of the Forest to
the other. A duke's daughter is not married every day in the year. Ah
me! there will not be an earthquake, or anything to prevent the
wedding, I daresay. No, I feel sure that all things are going smoothly.
If there had been a hitch of any kind, mamma would have written to tell
me about it."

Miss Skipwith was not a bad person to live with in a time of secret
trouble such as this. She was so completely wrapped up in her grand
scheme of reconciliation for all the creeds, that she was utterly blind
to any small individual tragedy that might be enacted under her nose.
Those worn cheeks and haggard eyes of Vixen's attracted no attention
from her as they sat opposite to each other at the sparely-furnished
breakfast-table, in the searching summer light.

She had allowed Violet perfect liberty, and had been too apathetic to
be unkind. Having tried her hardest to interest the girl in Swedenborg,
or Luther, or Calvin, or Mahomet, or Brahma, or Confucius, and having
failed ignominiously in each attempt, she had dismissed all idea of
companionship with Violet from her mind, and had given her over to her
own devices.

"Poor child," she said to herself, "she is not unamiable, but she is
utterly mindless. What advantages she might have derived from
intercourse with me, if she had possessed a receptive nature! But my
highest gifts are thrown away upon her. She will go through life in
lamentable ignorance of all that is of deepest import in man's past and
future. She has no more intellect than Baba."

Baba was the Persian cat, the silent companion of Miss Skipwith's
studious hours.

So Violet roamed in and out of the house, in this languid weather, and
took up a book only to throw it down again, and went out to the
court-yard to pat Argus, and strolled into the orchard and leaned
listlessly against an ancient apple-tre