ir heads
hanging lazily over the topmost bar, and their big soft eyes dreamily
contemplating the opposite pine wood, with that large capacity for
perfect idleness common to their species. Bates was chewing a straw and
swinging his hunting-crop somewhere in attendance. He went with his
young mistress everywhere, and played the part of the "dragon of
prudery placed within call;" but he was a very amiable dragon, and
nobody minded him. Had it come into the minds of Rorie and Vixen to
elope, Bates would not have barred their way. Indeed he would have been
very glad to elope with them himself. The restricted license of the
Abbey House had no charm for him.

Whither were those two drifting in the happy summer weather, lulled by
the whisper of forest leaves faintly stirred by the soft south wind, or
by the low murmur of the forest river, stealing on its stealthy course
under overarching boughs, mysterious as that wondrous river in Kubla
Khan's dream, and anon breaking suddenly out into a clamour loud enough
to startle Arion as the waters came leaping and brawling over the
shining moss-green boulders? Where were these happy comrades going as
they rode side by side under the glancing lights and wavering shadows?
Everybody knows what became of Launcelot and Guinevere after that
famous ride of theirs. What of these two, who rode together day after
day in sun and shower, who loitered and lingered in every loveliest
nook in the Forest, who had the same tastes, the same ideas, the same
loves, the same dislikes? Neither dared ask that question. They took
the happiness fate gave them, and sought not to lift the veil of the
future. Each was utterly and unreasonably happy, and each knew very
well that this deep and entire happiness was to last no longer than the
long summer days and the dangling balls of blossom on the beechen
boughs. Before the new tufts on the fir-branches had lost their early
green, this midsummer dream would be over. It was to be brief as a
schoolboy's holiday.

What was the good of being so happy, only to be so much more miserable
afterwards? A sensible young woman might have asked herself that
question, but Violet Tempest did not. Her intentions were pure as the
innocent light shining out of her hazel eyes--a gaze frank, direct, and
fearless as a child's. She had no idea of tempting Roderick to be false
to his vows. Had Lady Mabel, with her orchids and Greek plays, been
alone in question, Violet might have though