r the
moat. 'A fair maiden, indeed,' a voice was saying, in low, polished
tones. The next moment the sound of her own name made the girl look
up. There, coming towards her, at the very top of the flight of
shallow stone steps that led from the terrace to the low stone bridge,
she saw her father, and with him a stranger, dressed, not like Colonel
Purefoy, in a slightly archaic costume, but in the very latest fashion
of King Charles's Court at Whitehall.

'My father come home already! and a stranger with him! What an unlucky
chance after the misadventure of the morning!'

Throwing her remaining crumbs over the swans in a swift shower, Joyce
made haste up the stone steps, to greet the two gentlemen with the
reverence always paid by children to their elders in those days.

Somewhat to her surprise, her father bent down and kissed her cheek.
Then, taking her hand, he led her towards the stranger, and presented
her very gravely. 'My daughter, Jocosa: my good friend, Sir Everard
Danvers.' 'Exactly as if I had been a grown-up lady at Court,' thought
Joyce, delighted, with the delight of thirteen, at her own unexpected
importance. Her father had never paid her so much attention before.
Well, at least he should see that she was worthy of it now. And Joyce
dropped her lowest, most formal, curtsey, as the stranger bowed low
over her hand. To curtsey at the edge of a flight of steps, and in a
clinging riding skirt, was an accomplishment of which anyone might be
proud. Was the stranger properly impressed? He appeared grave enough,
anyhow, and a very splendid figure in his suit of sky-blue satin,
short shoulder cape, and pointed lace collar. He was a strikingly
handsome man, of a dark-olive complexion, with good features, and
jet-black hair; but strangely enough, the sight of him made Joyce turn
back to her father, feeling as if she had never understood before the
comfort of his quiet, familiar face. Even the old-fashioned ruff gave
her a sense of home and security. She would tell him about the
morning's disasters now after all. But Colonel Purefoy's questions
came first. 'How now, Jocosa, and wherefore alone? My daughter rides
with her brother in my absence,' he added, turning to his companion.

'Father,--Snowball,...' began Joyce bravely, her colour rising as she
spoke.

'Talk not of snowballs,' interrupted Sir Everard gallantly, 'it may
be November by the calendar, but here it is high summer yet, with
roses all abloom.' He po