t would have been fun to see poor Rorie prick his clumsy
fingers with the holly. Vixen laughed at his awkwardness in advance,
when she talked to Miss McCroke about him, and drew upon himself that
lady's mild reproval.

But Christmas came and brought no Rorie. He had gone off to spend his
Christmas at the Duke of Dovedale's Scotch castle. Easter came, and
still no Rorie. He was at Putney, with the 'Varsity crew, or in London
with the Dovedales, riding in the Row, and forgetting dear old
Hampshire and the last of the hunting, for which he would have been
just in time.

Even the long vacation came without Rorie. He had gone for that
promised tour in Switzerland, at his mother's instigation, and was only
to come back late in the year to keep his twenty-first birthday, which
was to be honoured in a very subdued and unhilarious fashion at
Briarwood.

"Mamma," said Violet, at breakfast-time one August morning, with her
nose scornfully tilted, "what is Mr. Vawdrey like--dark or fair?"

"Why Violet, you can't have forgotten him," protested her mother, with
languid astonishment.

"I think he has been away long enough for me to forget even the colour
of his hair, mamma; and as he hasn't written to anybody, we may fairly
suppose he has forgotten us."

"Vixen misses her old playfellow," said the Squire, busy with the
demolition of a grouse. "But Rorie is a young man now, you know, dear,
and has work to do in the world--duties, my pet--duties."

"And is a young man's first duty to forget his old friends?" inquired
Vixen naively.

"My pet, you can't expect a lad of that kind to write letters. I am a
deuced bad hand at letter-writing myself, and always was. I don't think
a man's hand was ever made to pinch a pen. Nature has given us a broad
strong grasp, to grip a sword or a gun. Your mother writes most of my
letters, Vixen, you know, and I shall expect you to help her in a year
or two. Let me see; Rorie will be one-and-twenty in October, and there
are to be high jinks at Briarwood, I believe, so there's something for
you to look forward to, my dear."

"Edward!" exclaimed Mrs. Tempest reproachfully; "you forget that Violet
is not out. She will not be sixteen till next February."

"Bless her!" cried the Squire, with a tender look at his only child,
"she has grown up like a green bay-tree. But if this were to be quite a
friendly affair at Briarwood, she might go, surely."

"It will not be a friendly affair," said Mrs. Tempe