s was the last game, and he felt that he ought to do
something more than look on. Vixen blindfolded him, asked him the usual
question about his father's stable, and then sent him spinning amongst
the moss-grown beeches, groping his way fearfully, with outstretched
arms, amidst shrillest laughter and noisest delight.

He was not long blindfold, and had not had many bumps against the trees
before he impounded the person of a fat and scant-of-breath scholar, a
girl whose hard breathing would have betrayed her neighbourhood to the
dullest ear.

"That's Polly Sims, I know," said the Vicar.

It was Polly Sims, who was incontinently made as blind as Fortune or
Justice, or any other of the deities who dispense benefits to man.
Polly floundered about among the trees for a long time, making frantic
efforts to catch the empty air, panting like a human steam-engine, and
nearly knocking out what small amount of brains she might possess
against the gray branches, outstretched like the lean arms of Macbeth's
weird women across her path. Finally Polly Sims succeeded in catching
Bobby Jones, whom she clutched with the tenacity of an octopus; and
then came the reign of Bobby Jones, who was an expert at the game, and
who kept the whole party on the _qui vive_ by his serpentine windings
and twistings among the stout old trunks.

Presently there was a shrill yell of triumph. Bobby had caught Miss
Tempest.

"I know'd her by her musling gownd, and the sweet-smelling stuff upon
her pocket-handkercher," he roared.

Violet submitted with a good grace.

"I'm dreadfully tired," she said, "and I'm sure I shan't catch anyone."

The sun had been getting lower and lower. There were splashes of ruddy
light on the smooth gray beech-boles, and that was all. Soon these
would fade, and all would be gloom. The grove had an awful look
already. One would expect to meet some ghostly Druid, or some witch of
eld, among the shadowy tracks left by the forest wildings. Vixen went
about her work languidly. She was really tired, and was glad to think
her day's labours were over. She went slowly in and out among the
trees, feeling her way with outstretched arms, her feet sinking
sometimes into deep drifts of last year's leaves, or gliding
noiselessly over the moss. The air was soft and cool and dewy, with a
perfume of nameless wild flowers--a faint aromatic odour of herbs,
which the wise women had gathered for medicinal uses in days of old,
when your village