e-gear."

They all went out to the stone-paved quadrangle, which was as neatly
kept as a West-End livery-yard. Miss McCroke had an ever-present dread
of the ubiquitous hind-legs of strange horses: but she followed her
charge into the stable, with the same heroic fidelity with which she
would have followed her to the scaffold or the stake.

There were all Rorie's old favourites--Starlight Bess, with her shining
brown coat, and one white stocking; Blue Peter, broad-chested,
well-ribbed, and strong of limb; Pixie, the gray Arab mare, which Lady
Jane used to drive in a park-phaeton--quite an ancient lady; Donald,
the iron-sinewed hunter.

Vixen knew them all, and went up to them and patted their graceful
heads, and made herself at home with them.

"You are all coming to the Abbey House to live, you dear things," she
said delightedly.

There was a loose-box, shut off by a five-foot wainscot partition,
surmounted by a waved iron rail, at one end of the stable, and on
approaching this enclosure Vixen was saluted with sundry grunts and
snorting noises, which seemed curiously familiar.

At the sound of these she stopped short, turning red, and then pale,
and looked intently at Rorie, who was standing close by, smiling at her.

"That is my Bluebeard chamber," he said gaily. "There's something too
awful inside."

"What horse have you got there?" cried Vixen eagerly.

"A horse that I think will carry you nicely, when we hunt together."

"What horse? Have I ever seen him? Do I know him?"

The grunts and snortings were continued with a crescendo movement; an
eager nose was rattling the latch of the door that shut off the
loose-box.

"If you have a good memory for old friends, I think you will know this
one," said Rorie, withdrawing a bolt.

A head pushed open the door, and in another moment Vixen's arms were
round her old favourite's sleek neck, and the velvet nostrils were
sniffing her hair and cheek, in most loving recognition.

"You dear, dear old fellow!" cried Vixen; and then turning to Rorie:
"You told me he was sold at Tattersall's!" she exclaimed.

"So he was, and I bought him."

"Why did you not tell me that?"

"Because you did not ask me."

"I thought you so unkind, so indifferent about him."

"You were unkind when you could think it possible I should let your
favourite horse fall into strange hands. But perhaps you would rather
Lord Mallow had bought him?"

"To think that you should have kept the