e haunted with the ghosts of dead
joys.

She went round the gardens and shrubberies in the early morning,
looking sadly at everything, as if she were bidding the trees and
flowers a long farewell. The rhododendron thickets were shining with
dew, the grassy tracks in that wilderness of verdure were wet and cold
under Vixen's feet. She wandered in an out among the groups of wild
growing shrubs, rising one above another to the height of forest trees,
and then she went out by the old five-barred gate which Titmouse used
to jump so merrily, and rambled in the plantation till the sun was
high, and the pines began to breathe forth their incense as the day-god
warmed them into life.

It was half-past eight. Nine was the hour for breakfast, a meal at
which, during the Squire's time, the fragile Pamela had rarely
appeared, but which, under the present _regime_, she generally graced
with her presence. Captain Winstanley was an early riser, and was not
sparing in his contempt for sluggish habits.

Vixen had made up her mind never again to sit at meat with her
stepfather; so she went straight to her own den, and told Phoebe to
bring her a cup of tea.

"I don't want anything else," she said wearily when the girl suggested
a more substantial breakfast; "I should like to see mamma presently. Do
you know if she has gone down?"

"No, miss. Mrs. Winstanley is not very well this morning. Pauline has
taken her up a cup of tea."

Vixen sat idly by the open window, sipping her tea, and caressing
Argus's big head with a listless hand, waiting for the next stroke of
fate. She was sorry for her mother, but had no wish to see her. What
could they say to each other--they, whose thoughts and feelings were so
wide apart? Presently Phoebe came in with a little three-cornered note,
written in pencil.

"Pauline asked me to give you this from your ma, miss."

The note was brief, written in short gasps, with dashes between them.

"I feel too crushed and ill to see you--I have told Conrad what you
wish--he is all goodness--he will tell you what we have decided--try to
be worthier of his kindness--poor misguided child--he will see you in
his study, directly after breakfast--pray control your unhappy temper."

"His study, indeed!" ejaculated Vixen, tearing up the little note and
scattering its perfumed fragments on the breeze; "my father's room,
which he has usurped. I think I hate him just a little worse in that
room than anywhere else--th