her loveliest. The
figures in the tapestry seemed to move in the flickering
light--appeared and vanished, vanished and appeared, like the phantoms
of a dream. The carved bosses of the ceiling were reflected grotesquely
on the oaken wall above the tapestry. The stags' heads had a goblin
look. It was like a scene of enchantment, and Violet, in her black
frock and amber sash, looked like the enchantress--Circe, Vivien,
Melusine, or somebody of equally dubious antecedents.

It was Miss McCroke's sleepiest hour. Orange pekoe, which has an
awakening influence upon most people, acted as an opiate upon her. She
sat blinking owlishly at the two young figures.

Rorie roused himself with a great effort.

"Unless Starlight Bess spins me along the road pretty quickly, I shall
hardly get to Briarwood by dinner-time," he said; "and upon my honour,
I don't feel the least inclination to go."

"Oh, what fun if you were absent at your coming-of-age dinner!" cried
Vixen, with her brown eyes dancing mischievously. "They would have to
put an empty chair for you, like Banquo's."

"It would be a lark," acquiesced Rorie, "but it wouldn't do; I should
hear too much about it afterwards. A fellow's mother has some kind of
claim upon him, you know. Now for Starlight Bess."

They went into the vestibule, and Rorie opened the door, letting in a
gust of wind and rain, and the scent of autumn's last ill-used flowers.

"Oh, I so nearly forgot," said Violet, as they stood on the threshold,
side by side, waiting for the dog-cart to appear. "I've got a little
present for you--quite a humble one for a grand young land-owner like
you--but I never could save much of my pocket-money; there are so many
poor children always having scarlet-fever, or tumbling into the fire,
or drinking out of boiling tea-kettles. But here it is, Rorie. I hope
you won't hate it very much."

She put a little square packet into his hand, which he proceeded
instantly to open.

"I shall love it, whatever it is."

"It's a portrait."

"You darling! The very thing I should have asked for."

"The portrait of someone you're fond of."

"Someone I adore," said Rorie.

He had extracted the locket from its box by this time. It was a thick
oblong locket of dead gold, plain and massive; the handsomest of its
kind that a Southampton jeweller could supply.

Rorie opened it eagerly, to look at the portrait.

There was just light enough from the newly-kindled vestibule lamp to
sh