in in another direction, just entering in by the door;
which secondary flutter was furnished by the furbelows of Mrs.
Fellows, the lawyer's wife, and the scarf of Mrs. Dell, the
mother of the clergyman himself. There was no more question
about angels.

CHAPTER XV.

TO MOSCHELOO.

The next morning Mr. Falkirk appeared in the breakfast-room,
as was his very frequent, though not invariable wont.

'I want your orders, Miss Hazel, about horses.'

Hazel--deep in a great wicker tray of flowers--looked up to
consider the question.

'Well, sir,--we want carriage horses of course,--and saddle
horses. And I want a pony carriage.'

'I don't think you need two carriages at present. The pony
carriage would have to have a pony.'

'Yes, sir. Pony carriages, I believe, generally do. I am not
well enough known in the neighbourhood yet to expect other
means of setting my wheels in motion. But if I have nothing
_but_ that, Mr. Falkirk, then you and I can never go together.'

'And if you do _not_ have that, then you could not go alone.'

'Precisely, sir. Mr. Falkirk, don't you want a rose--what shall
I say! --to--do something to your meditations?' And before Mr.
Falkirk had time to breathe, she was down on her knees at his
side, and fastening an exquisite "Duchess of Thuringia" in his
buttonhole.

'Yes, I look like it,' said he grimly, but suffering her
fingers to do their will nevertheless. 'Miss Hazel, if the
princess goes about in a pony carriage, I shall be in daily
expectation of its turning into a pumpkin, and leaving her on
the ground somewhere.'

'No, sir. Not the least fear of your turning into an amiable
godmother,--and you know that was essential.'

'Ponies are ugly things,' said Mr. Falkirk ruefully. 'However,
I'll ask Rollo; and if he can find one, that suits him----'

'Then do let him keep it!' interposed Miss Hazel, facing
round. 'What possible concern of Mr. Rollo's are my horses?'

'Simply that I am going to ask him to choose them. He knows
more about such things than any one else, and I dare say he
will give me his help. I wanted to know your fancy, though
very likely it can't be met, about the other horses; colour
and so forth.'

'Not white--and not black,' said Wych Hazel. 'And not sorrel--
nor cream.'

'That is lucid. You said saddle horses--Ah! what's this?'

It was a little combination of brisk sounds in the hall,
followed by the entrance of Rollo himself in a gray
fisherman's dress. Un