opened one of the doors in the gallery. The room into which she
ushered Violet was large and airy, with windows commanding the fair
garden-like island, and the wide blue sea. But there was the same bare,
poverty-stricken look in this room as in every other part of the manor
house. The bed was a tall melancholy four-poster, with scantiest
draperies of faded drab damask. Save for one little islet of threadbare
Brussels beside the bed, the room was carpetless. There was an ancient
wainscot wardrobe with brass handles. There was a modern deal
dressing-table skimpily draped with muslin, and surmounted by the
smallest of looking-glasses. There were a couple of chairs and a
three-cornered washhand-stand. There was neither sofa nor
writing-table. There was not an ornament on the high wooden
mantelshelf, or a picture on the panelled walls. Vixen shivered as she
surveyed the big barren room.

"I think you will find everything comfortable," said Mrs. Doddery, with
a formal air, which seemed to say, "and whether you do or do not
matters nothing to me."

"Thank you, yes, I daresay it is all right," Vixen answered absently,
standing at one of the windows, gazing out over the green hills and
valleys to the fair summer sea, and wondering whether she would be able
to take comfort from the fertile beauty of the island.

"The bed has been well aired," continued Mrs. Doddery, "and I can
answer for the cleanliness of everything."

"Thanks! Will you kindly send one of the maids to help me unpack my
portmanteau?"

"I can assist you," Mrs. Doddery answered. "We have no maid-servant. My
husband and I are able to do all that Miss Skipwith requires. She is a
lady who gives so little trouble."

"Do you mean to say there are no other servants in this great house--no
housemaids, no cooks?"

"I have cooked for Miss Skipwith for the last thirty years. The house
is large, but there are very few rooms in occupation."

"I ought to have brought my maid," cried Vixen. "It will be quite
dreadful. I don't want much waiting upon; but still, I'm afraid I shall
give some trouble until I learn to do everything for myself. Just as if
I were cast on a desert island," she said to herself in conclusion; and
then she thought of Helen Rolleston, the petted beauty in Charles
Reade's "Foul Play," cast with her faithful lover on an unknown island
of the fair southern sea. But in this island of Jersey there was no
faithful lover to give romance and interest to