hat had been drawn
from the noontide crowing of restless village cocks was set at naught,
for the weather was peerless: a midsummer sky and golden sunlight shone
upon all things; upon white-walled cottages and orchards, and gardens
where the pure lilies were beginning to blow, upon the yellow-green oak
leaves and deepening bloom of the beech, and the long straight roads
cleaving the heart of the Forest.

Violet had arranged to drive Mr. and Mrs. Scobel in her pony-carriage.
She was at the door of their snug little Vicarage at three o'clock; the
vivacious Titmouse tossing his head and jingling his bit in a burst of
pettishness at the aggravating behaviour of the flies.

Mrs. Scobel came fluttering out, with the Vicar behind her. Both
carried baskets, and behind them came an old servant, who had been Mrs.
Scobel's nurse, a woman with a figure like a hogshead of wine, and a
funny little head at the top, carrying a third basket.

"The buns and bread have gone straight from the village," said the
Vicar's wife. "How well you are looking, Violet. I hope dear Mrs.
Tempest was not very angry at your coming with us."

"Dear Mrs. Tempest didn't care a straw," Vixen answered, laughing. "But
she thinks me wanting in dignity for liking to have a romp with the
school-children."

All the baskets were in by this time, and Titmouse was in a paroxysm of
impatience; so Mr. and Mrs. Scobel seated themselves quickly, and Vixen
gave her reins a little shake that meant Go, and off went the pony at a
pace which was rather like running away.

The Vicar looked slightly uneasy.

"Does he always go as fast as this?" he inquired.

"Sometimes a good deal faster. He's an old fencer, you know, and hasn't
forgotten his jumping days. But of course I don't let him jump with the
carriage."

"I should think not," ejaculated the Vicar; "unless you wanted to
commit murder and suicide. Don't you think you could make him go a
little steadier? He's going rather like a dog with a tin kettle at his
tail, and if the kettle were to tip over----"

"Oh, he'll settle down presently," said Vixen coolly. "I don't want to
interfere with him; it makes him ill-tempered. And if he were to take
to kicking----"

"If you'll pull him up, I think I'll get out and walk," said Mr.
Scobel, the back of whose head was on a level with the circle which the
pony's hoofs would have been likely to describe in the event of kicking.

"Oh, please don't!" cried Vixen. "If you do