, and everybody loved her. She was not much given to visiting in
a methodical way among the poor, and it had never entered into her
young mind that it was her mission to teach older people the way to
heaven; but if there was trouble in the village--a sick child, a
husband in prison for rabbit snaring, a dead baby, a little boy's
pinafore set fire--Vixen and her pony were always to the fore; and it
was an axiom in the village that, where Miss Tempest did "take," it was
very good for those she took to. Violet never withdrew her hand' when
she had put it to the plough. If she made a promise, she always kept
it. However long the sickness, however dire the poverty, Vixen's
patience and benevolence lasted to the end.

The famous princess in the story, whose sleep was broken because there
was a pea under her seven feather-beds, had scarcely a more untroubled
life than Vixen. She had her own way in everything. She did exactly
what she liked with her comfortable, middle-aged governess, Miss
McCroke, learnt what she pleased, and left what she disliked unlearned.
She had the prettiest ponies in Hampshire to ride, the prettiest
dresses to wear. Her mother was not a woman to bestow mental culture
upon her only child, but she racked her small brain to devise becoming
costumes for Violet: the coloured stockings which harmonised best with
each particular gown, the neat little buckled shoes, the fascinating
Hessian boots. Nothing was too beautiful or too costly for Violet. She
was the one thing her parents possessed in the world, and they lavished
much love upon her; but it never occurred to Mr. and Mrs. Tempest, as
it had occurred to the Duchess of Dovedale--to make their daughter a
paragon.

In this perpetual sunshine Violet grew up, fair as most things are that
grow in the sunshine. She loved her father with all her heart, and
mind, and soul; she loved her mother with a lesser love; she had a
tolerant affection for Miss McCroke; she loved her ponies, and the dog
Argus; she loved the hounds in the kennels; she loved every honest
familiar face of nurse, servant, and stable-man, gardener, keeper, and
huntsman, that had looked upon her with friendly, admiring eyes, ever
since she could remember.

Not to be loved and admired would have been the strangest thing to
Violet. She would hardly have recognised herself in an unappreciative
circle. If she could have heard Lady Mabel talking about her, it would
have been like the sudden revelati