ives were spongy and sloppy. There was no
hunting, or Vixen would have been riding her pony through rain and foul
weather, and would have been comparatively independent of the elements.
But to be at home all day, watching the rain, and thinking what a
horrid, ungrateful young man Rorie was! That was dreary.

Mrs. Tempest went to her room to lie down directly after luncheon. She
wanted to keep herself fresh for the evening. She made quite a solemn
business of this particular dinner-party. At five precisely, Pauline
was to bring her a cup of tea. At half-past five she was to begin to
dress. This would give her an hour and a half for her toilet, as
Briarwood was only half-an-hour's drive from the Abbey House. So for
the rest of that day--until she burst upon their astonished view in her
new gown--Mrs. Tempest would be invisible to her family.

"What a disgusting birthday!" cried Vixen, sitting in the deep
embrasure of the hall window, with Argus at her side, dog and girl
looking out at the glistening shrubbery.

Miss McCroke had gone to her room to write letters, or Vixen would have
hardly been allowed to remain peacefully in such an inelegant position,
her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms embracing her legs, her back
against the stout oak shutter. Yet the girl and dog made rather a
pretty picture, despite the inelegance of Vixen's attitude. The tawny
hair, black velvet frock, and careless amber sash, amber stockings, and
broad-toed Cromwell shoes; the tawny mastiff curled in the opposite
corner of the deep recess; the old armorial bearings, sending pale
shafts of parti-coloured light across Vixen's young head;--these things
made a picture full framed of light and colour, in the dark brown oak.

"What an abominable birthday!" ejaculated Vixen; "if it were such
weather as this on my twenty-first birthday, I should think Nature had
taken a dislike to me. But I don't suppose Rorie cares. He is playing
billiards with a lot of his friends, and smoking, and making a horror
of himself, I daresay, and hardly knows whether it rains or shines."

Drip, drip, drip, came the rain on the glistening leaves, berberis and
laurel, bay and holly, American oaks of richest red and bronze, copper
beeches, tall rhododendrons, cypress of every kind, and behind them a
dense black screen of yew. The late roses looked miserable. Vixen would
have liked to have brought them in and put them by the hall fire--the
good old hearth with its pile of