and backwards
gaze, above the stone shield. The ruddy firelight was shining across
the wide doorway. The old hearth looked as cheerful as of old. And
there stood the empty chair beside it. That had been Vixen's particular
wish.

"Let nothing be disturbed, dear mamma," she had said ever so many
times, when her mother was writing her orders to the housekeeper. "Beg
them to keep everything just as it was in papa's time."

"My dear, it will only make you grieve more."

"Yes; but I had rather grieve for him than forget him. I am more afraid
of forgetting him than of grieving too much for him," said Vixen.

And now, as she stood on the hearth after her journey, wrapped in black
furs, a little black fur _toque_ crowning her ruddy gold hair, fancy
filled the empty chair as she gazed at it. Yes, she could see her
father sitting there in his hunting-clothes, his whip across his knee.

The old pointer, the Squire's favourite, came whining to her feet. How
old he looked! Old, and broken, and infirm, as if from much sorrow.

"Poor Nip! poor Nip!" she said, patting him. "The joy of your life went
with papa, didn't it?"

"It's all very sad," murmured Mrs. Tempest, loosening her wraps. "A
sad, sad home-coming. And it seems only yesterday that I came here as a
bride. Did I ever tell you about my travelling-dress, Violet? It was a
shot-silk--they were fashionable then, you know--bronze and blue--the
loveliest combination of colour!"

"I can't imagine a shot-silk being anything but detestable," said Vixen
curtly. "Poor Nip! How faithful dogs are! The dear thing is actually
crying!"

Tears were indeed running from the poor old eyes, as the pointer's head
lay in Vixen's lap; as if memory, kindled by her image, brought back
the past too keenly for that honest canine heart.

"It is very mournful," said Mrs. Tempest. "Pauline, let us have a cup
of tea."

She sank into an arm-chair opposite the fire. Not the squire's old
carved oak-chair, with its tawny leather cushions. That must needs be
sacred evermore--a memento of the dead, standing beside the hearth,
revered as the image of an honoured ancestor in a Roman citizen's home.

"I wonder if anyone is alive that we knew here?" said Vixen, lying back
in her low chair, and idly caressing the dogs.

"My dear Violet, why should people be dead? We have only been away two
years."

"No; but it seems so long. I hardly expect to see any of the old faces.
He is not here," with a sudden