ed. Her faith in the silver-gray and
the rosebuds was just a little shaken by her first view of Mrs. Tempest
and Violet; the widow in black velvet, rose-point, and scarlet--Spanish
as a portrait by Velasquez; Violet in black and gold, with white
stephanotis in her hair.

The drive was a long one, well over ten miles, along one of those
splendid straight roads which distinguish the New Forest. Mrs. Tempest
and Mrs. Scobel were in high spirits, and prattled agreeably all the
way, only giving Captain Winstanley time to get a word in edgeways now
and then. Violet looked out of the window and held her peace. There was
always a charm for her in that dark silent forest, those waving
branches and flitting clouds, stars gleaming like lights on a stormy
sea. She was not much elated at the idea of the ball, and "that small,
small, imperceptibly small talk" of her mother's and Mrs. Scobel's was
beyond measure wearisome to her.

"I hope we shall get there after the Ellangowans," said Mrs. Scobel,
when they had driven through the little town of Ringwood, and were
entering a land of level pastures and fertilising streams, which seemed
wonderfully tame after the undulating forest; "it would be so much
nicer for Violet to be in the Ellangowan set from the first."

"I beg to state that Miss Tempest has promised me the first waltz,"
said Captain Winstanley. "I am not going to be ousted by any offshoot
of nobility in Lady Ellangowan's set."

"Oh, of course, if Violet has promised---- What a lot of carriages! I
am afraid there'll be a block presently."

There was every prospect of such a calamity. A confluence of vehicles
had poured into a narrow lane bounded on one side by a treacherous
water-meadow, on the other by a garden-wall. They all came to a
standstill, as Mrs. Scobel had prophesied. For a quarter of an hour
there was no progress whatever, and a good deal of recrimination among
coachmen, and then the rest of the journey had to be done at a walking
pace.

The reward was worth the labour when, at the end of a long winding
drive, the carriage drew up before the Italian front of Southminster
House; a white marble portico, long rows of tall windows brilliantly
lighted, a vista of flowers, and statues, and lamps, and pictures, and
velvet hangings, seen through the open doorway.

"Oh, it is too lovely!" cried Violet, fresh as a schoolgirl in this new
delight; "first the dark forest and then a house like this--it is like
Fairyland