schievous to your enemies."

Cecil colored. "She is no enemy of mine; I know nothing of her, but I do
detest that mock sentimentality, that would-be fine ladyism that thinks
it looks interesting when it pleads guilty to sal volatile, and screams
at an honest dog's bark. Did you see how shocked she and Miss
Screechington looked because I let the hounds leap about me?"

"Of course; but though you have not lived very long, you must have
learned that you are too dangerous to the peace of our sex to expect
much mercy from your own."

A flush came into Cecil's cheeks _not_ brought by the wind. Her feathers
gave a little dance as she shook her head with her customary action of
annoyance.

"Ah, never compliment me, I am so tired of it."

"I wish I could believe that," said Syd, in a low tone. "Your feelings
are warm, your impulses frank and true; it were a pity to mar them by an
undue love for the flattering voices of empty-headed fools."

Tears of pleasure started into her eyes, but she would not let him see
it. She had not forgotten the Caldecott flirtation of the morning enough
to resist revenging it. She looked up with a merry laugh.

"Je m'amuse--voila tout. There is no great harm in it."

A shadow of disappointment passed over Syd's haughty face.

"No, if you do not do it once too often. I _have_ known men--and women
too--who all their lives through have been haunted by the memory of a
slight word, a careless look, with which, unwittingly or in obstinacy,
they shut the door of their own happiness. Have you ever heard of the
Deerhurst ghost?"

"No," said Cecil, softly. "Tell it me."

"It is a short story. Do you know that picture of Muriel Vivian, the
girl with the hawk on her wrist and long hair of your color? She lived
in Charles's time, and was a great beauty at the court. There were many
who would have lived and died for her, but the one who loved her best
was her cousin Guy. The story says that she had plighted herself to him
in these very woods; at any rate, he followed her when she went to join
the court, and she kept him on, luring him with vague promises, and
flirting with Goring, and Francis Egerton, and all the other gay
gentlemen. One night his endurance broke down: he asked her whether or
no she cared for him? He begged, as a sign, for the rosebud she had in
her dress. She laughed at him, and--gave the flower to Harry Carrew, a
young fellow in Lunsford's 'Babe-eaters.' Guy said no more, and left
h