XX A Better Point Of View 250
XXI Michael Veritas 260
XXII Lord Ingleby's Wife 271
XXIII What Billy Knew 289
XXIV Mrs. Dalmain Reviews the Situation 303
XXV The Test 327
XXVI "What Shall We Write?" 337

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THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE

CHAPTER I

ON THE TERRACE AT SHENSTONE

Three o'clock on a dank afternoon, early in November. The wintry
sunshine, in fitful gleams, pierced the greyness of the leaden sky.

The great trees in Shenstone Park stood gaunt and bare, spreading wide
arms over the sodden grass. All nature seemed waiting the first fall of
winter's snow, which should hide its deadness and decay under a lovely
pall of sparkling white, beneath which a promise of fresh life to come
might gently move and stir; and, eventually, spring forth.

The Mistress of Shenstone moved slowly up and down the terrace, wrapped
in her long cloak, listening to the soft "drip, drip" of autumn all
around; noting the silent fall of the last dead leaves; the steely grey
of the lake beyond; the empty flower-garden; the deserted lawn.

The large stone house had a desolate appearance, most of the rooms being,
evidently, closed; but, in one or two, cheerful log-fires blazed, casting
a ruddy glow upon the window-panes, and sending forth a tempting promise
of warmth and cosiness within.

A tiny white toy-poodle walked the terrace with his mistress--an agitated
little bundle of white curls; sometimes running round and round her; then
hurrying on before, or dropping behind, only to rush on, in unexpected
haste, at the corners; almost tripping her up, as she turned.

"Peter," said Lady Ingleby, on one of these occasions, "I do wish you
would behave in a more rational manner! Either come to heel and follow
sedately, as a dog of your age should do; or trot on in front, in the
gaily juvenile manner you assume when Michael takes you out for a walk;
but, for goodness sake, don't be so fidgety; and don't run round and
round me in this bewildering way, or I shall call for William, and send
you in. I only wish Michael could see you!"

The little animal looked up at her, pathetically, through his tumbled
curls--a soft silky mass, which had earned for him his name of
Shockheaded Peter. His eyes, red-rimmed from the cold wind,