dear mamma; not to-night, I'm too tired," sighed Violet.

"Never mind, dear. Theodore always fits you to perfection. Go to bed at
once, love. The dress will be a pleasant surprise for you in the
morning. Good-night, pet. You have made me so happy."

"I am glad of that, mamma."

"I wish you were going to Scotland with us." (Vixen shuddered.) "I'm
afraid you'll be dreadfully dull here."

"No, mamma; I shall have the dogs and horses. I shall get on very well."

"You are such a curious girl. Well, good-night, darling. You are my own
Violet again."

And with this they parted; Mrs. Tempest going back to her room with
restored peace of mind.

She looked at the reflection of her tear-blotted face anxiously as she
paused before the glass.

"I'm afraid I shall look an object to-morrow," she said, "The morning
sunshine is so searching."

CHAPTER IV.

The Vow is vowed.

Only a chosen few had been bidden to Mrs. Tempest's wedding. She had
told all her friends that she meant everything to be done very quietly.

"There is so much that is saddening in my position," she said
pensively. But she was resolved that those guests who were asked to
lend their countenance to her espousals should be the very best people.

Lord and Lady Ellangowan had been asked, and had accepted, and their
presence alone would lend dignity to the occasion. Colonel and Mrs.
Carteret, from Copse Hall; the Chopnells, of Chopnell Park; and about
half-a-dozen other representative landowners and commoners made up the
list.

"There is such a satisfaction in knowing they are all the best people,"
Mrs. Tempest said to Captain Winstanley, when they went over the list
together.

His own friends were but two, Major Pontorson, his best man, and a
clerical cousin, with a portly figure and a portwiney nose, who was to
assist Mr. Scobel in the marriage service.

It was a very pretty wedding, the neighbourhood declared unanimously;
despite the absence of that most attractive feature in more youthful
bridals--a string of girlish bridesmaids. The little church at
Beechdale was a bower of summer flowers. The Abbey House conservatories
had been emptied--the Ellangowans had sent a waggon-load of ferns and
exotics. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of yellow roses and
stephanotis.

Violet stood among the guests, no gleam of colour on her cheeks except
the wavering hues reflected from the painted windows in the low Gothic
chancel--the ruddy gold of her