from Pierrepoint, and gallop through
the lanes to meet him and rein up at his side, startling him from his
abstraction with that ringing laugh of hers.

She was seldom idle, and never dull.

When Sir Hugh had shooting parties, she always carried the luncheon to
the sportsmen, driving through the wood in her pony-carriage; when her
husband began to return his neighbors' hospitality, she surprised him
by making a perfect little hostess, and never seemed too shy to chat
in her pretty, modest manner to his guests. All Sir Hugh's masculine
friends fell in love with her, and the ladies petted and made much of
her.

Fay was very grateful to them for their kindness, but she liked best
to be alone in the old Hall.

She had a hundred sources of amusement; she would follow Mrs. Heron
from room to room, listening to her stories of many a dead Redmond; or
coax her to show the old treasures of tapestry and lace; or she would
wander through the gardens and woods with her favorite Nero and Sir
Hugh's noble St. Bernard, Pierre.

She made acquaintance with every man, woman, and child about the
place, and all the animals besides; when the spring came she knew all
the calves and lambs by name, all the broods of chickens and
ducklings; she visited the stables and the poultry-yards till every
helper and boy about the premises knew her bright face well, and were
ready to vow that a sweeter-spoken creature never lived than the young
Lady Redmond.

And she would prattle to Hugh all through the long dinner, beguiling
him by her quaint bright stories; and when he went into the
library--she never could coax him after that first evening into her
"blue nestie"--she would follow him and sit herself at his feet with
her work or book, perfectly content if he sometimes stroked her hair,
or with a sudden feeling of compunction stooped over her and kissed
her brow, for he was always very gentle with her, and Fay adored him
from the depths of her innocent heart.

CHAPTER XIII.

THAT ROOM OF MRS. WATKINS'S.

Soft hair on which light drops a diadem.

GERALD MASSEY.

With hands so flower-like, soft and fair,
She caught at life with words as sweet
As first spring violets.

_Ibid._

No, it was not a bad room, that room of Mrs. Watkins's, seen just now
in the November dusk, with its bright fire and neat hearth, with th