he blazing logs, lay the Squire's chosen companion, Nip, a
powerful liver-coloured pointer; and beside him in equally luxurious
rest, reclined Argus, Vixen's mastiff. There was a story about Vixen
and the mastiff, involving the only incident in that young lady's life
the recollection whereof could make her blush.

The dog, apparently coiled in deepest slumber, heard the light
footsteps on the hall floor, pricked up his tawny ears, sprang to his
feet, and bounded over to his young mistress, whom he nearly knocked
down in the warmth of his welcome. Nip, the pointer, blinked at the
intruders, yawned desperately, stretched himself a trifle longer, and
relapsed into slumber.

"How fond that brute is of you," said Rorie; "but it's no wonder, when
one considers what you did for him."

"If you say another word I shall hate you," cried Vixen savagely.

"Well, but you know when a fellow fights another fellow's battles, the
other fellow's bound to be fond of him; and when a young lady pitches
into a bird-boy with her riding-whip to save a mastiff pup from
ill-usage, that mastiff pup is bound----"

"Mamma," cried Vixen, flinging aside a tapestry _portiere_, and
bouncing into the drawing-room, "here's Roderick, and he's come to
dinner, and you must excuse his shooting-dress, please. I'm sure pa
will."

"Certainly, my dear Violet," replied a gentle, _trainante_ voice from
the fire-lit dimness near the velvet-curtained hearth. "Of course I am
always glad to see Mr. Vawdrey when your papa asks him. Where did you
meet the Squire, Roderick?"

"Upon my word, Mrs. Tempest," faltered Rorie, coming slowly forward
into the ruddy glow, "I feel quite awfully ashamed of myself; I've been
rabbit-shooting, and I'm a most horrid object. It wasn't the Squire
asked me to stay. It was Vixen."

Vixen made a ferocious grimace at him--he could just see her distorted
countenance in the fire-light--and further expressed her aggravation by
a smart crack of her whip.

"Violet, my love, you have such startling ways," exclaimed Mrs.
Tempest, with a long-suffering air. "Really, Miss McCroke, you ought to
try and correct her of those startling ways."

On this Roderick became aware of a stout figure in a tartan dress,
knitting industriously on the side of the hearth opposite Mrs.
Tempest's sofa. He could just see the flash of those active needles,
and could just hear Miss McCroke murmur placidly that she had corrected
Violet, and that it was no use.