not, as I did in the old days?--at least, when I did not
call you Vixen."

"That was papa's name," she said quickly. "Nobody ever calls me that
now."

"I understand; I am to call you Violet. And we are to be good friends
always, are we not, with a true and loyal friendship?"

"I have not so many friends that I can afford to give up one who is
stanch and true," answered Violet sadly.

"And I mean to be stanch and true, believe me; and I hope, by-and-by,
when you come to know Mabel, you and she will be fast friends. You may
not cotton to her very easily at first, because, you see, she reads
Greek, and goes in for natural science, and has a good many queer ways.
But she is all that is pure-minded and noble. She has been brought up
in an atmosphere of adulation, and that has made her a little
self-opinionated. It is the only fault she has."

"I shall be very glad if she will let me like her," Violet said meekly.

They had strolled away from the kennels into the surrounding forest,
where the free horses of the soil were roaming from pasture to pasture,
and a few vagabond pigs were stealing a march on their brethren, for
whom the joys of pannage-time had not yet begun. They walked along
idly, following a cart-track that led into the woody deeps where the
earliest autumn leaves were dropping gently in the soft west wind.
By-and-by they came to a fallen oak, lying by the side of the track,
ready for barking, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to
sit down side by side on this rustic seat, and talk of days gone by,
lazily watching the flickering shadows and darting sunrays in the
opposite thicket, or along the slanting stretch of open turf--that
smooth emerald grass, so inviting to the eye, so perilous to the foot
of man or beast.

"And now, Violet, tell me all about yourself, and about this second
marriage of your mother's," Roderick began earnestly; "I hope you have
quite reconciled yourself to the idea of it by this time."

"I have not reconciled myself; I never shall," answered Violet, with
restrained anger. "I know that mamma has heaped up sorrow for herself
in the days to come, and I pity her too much to be angry with her. Yes;
I, who ought to look up to and respect my mother, can only look down
upon her and pity her. That is a hard thing, is it not, Rorie? She has
married a bad man--mean, and false--and tyrannical. Shall I tell you
what he has done within these last few days?"

"Do. I hope it is n