ts, or the recipients thereof.

Violet said nothing after her little ironical protest about the poor.
She sat opposite the fire, between her mother and Mr. Scobel, but at
some distance from both. The ruddy light glowed on her ruddy hair, and
lit up her pale cheeks, and shone in her brilliant eyes. The incumbent
of Beechdale thought he had never seen anything so lovely. She was like
a painted window; a Madonna, with the glowing colour of Rubens, the
divine grace of Raffaelle. And those little speeches about the poor had
warmed his heart. He was Violet's friend and champion from that moment.

Mrs. Tempest fanned herself listlessly.

"I wish Forbes would bring the tea," she said.

"Shall I ring, mamma?"

"No, dear. They have not finished tea in the housekeeper's room,
perhaps. Forbes doesn't like to be disturbed. Is there any news, Mr.
Scobel? We only came home yesterday evening, and have seen no one."

"News! Well, no, I think not much. Lady Ellangowan has got a new
orchid."

"And there has been a new baby, too, hasn't there?"

"Oh yes. But nobody talks about the baby, and everybody is in raptures
with the orchid."

"What is it like?"

"Rather a fine boy. I christened him last week."

"I mean the orchid."

"Oh, something really magnificent; a brilliant blue, a butterfly-shaped
blossom that positively looks as if it were alive. They say Lord
Ellangowan gave five hundred guineas for it. People come from the other
side of the county to see it."

"I think you are all orchid mad," exclaimed Mrs. Tempest. "Oh, here
comes the tea!" as Forbes entered with the old silver tray and Swansea
cups and saucers. "You'll take some, of course, Mr. Scobel. I cannot
understand this rage for orchids--old china, or silver, or lace, I can
understand, but orchids--things that require no end of trouble to keep
them alive, and which I daresay are as common as buttercups and daisies
in the savage places where they grow. There is Lady Jane Vawdrey now, a
perfect slave to the orchid-houses."

Violet's face flamed crimson at this mention of Lady Jane. Not for
worlds would she have asked a question about her old playfellow, though
she was dying to hear about him. Happily no one saw that sudden blush,
or it passed for a reflection of the fire-glow.

"Poor Lady Jane!" sighed the incumbent of Beechdale, looking very
solemn, "she has gone to a land in which there are fairer flowers than
ever grew on the banks of the Amazon."

"What do