She roamed on till she came to the open seashore; a pretty little
harbour surrounded with quaint-looking houses; two or three white
villas in fertile gardens, on a raised road; and, dominating all the
scene, a fine old feudal castle, with keep, battlements, drawbridge,
portcullis, and all that becomes a fortress.

This was Mount Orgueil, the castle in which Charles Stuart spent a
short period of his life, while Cromwell was ruling by land and sea,
and kingly hopes were at their lowest ebb. The good old fortress had
suffered for its loyalty, for the Parliament sent Admiral Blake, with a
fleet, to reduce the rebellious island to submission, and Mount Orgueil
had not been strong enough to hold out against its assailants.

Violet wont up the sloping path that led to the grim old gateway under
the gloomy arch, and still upward till she came to a sunny battlemented
wall above the shining sea. The prospect was more than worth the
trouble. Yonder, in the dim distance, were the towers of Coutance
Cathedral; far away, mere spots in the blue water, were the smaller fry
of the Channel Islands; below her, the yellow sands were smiling in the
sun, the placid wavelets reflecting all the colour and glory of the
changeful sky.

"This would not be a bad place to live in, Argus, if----"

She paused with her arm round her dog's neck, as he stood on end,
looking over the parapet, with a deep interest in possible rats or
rabbits lurking in some cavity of the craggy cliff below. If! Ah, what
a big "if" that was! It meant love and dear familiar companionship. It
meant all Vixen's little world.

She lingered long. The scene was beautiful, and there was nothing to
lure her home. Then, at last, feeling that she was treating poor Miss
Skipwith badly, and that her prolonged absence might give alarm in that
dreary household, she retraced her steps, and at the foot of the craggy
mount asked the nearest way to Les Tourelles.

The nearest way was altogether different from the track by which she
had come, and brought her back to the old monastic gate in a little
more than an hour. She opened the gate and went in. There was nothing
for the most burglarious invader to steal at Les Tourelles, and bolts
and locks were rarely used. Miss Skipwith was reading in her parlour, a
white Persian cat dozing on a cushioned arm-chair beside her, some cups
and saucers and a black teapot on a tray before her, and the rest of
the table piled with books. There was n