e at Islington and was
inclined to be bumptious about it. Arion, tossing his delicately
modelled Greek head, and peering furtively after bogies in the adjacent
shrubbery. Captain Winstanley's well-seasoned hunter, Mosstrooper,
nodding his long bony head, and swaying his fine-drawn neck up and down
in a half-savage half-scornful manner, as if he were at war with
society in general, like the Miller of Dee.

Vixen, who had looked the picture of vexation at the breakfast-table,
was now all gaiety. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. Lord Mallow
stood in the porch, watching her as she came down the shining oak
staircase, glorious in the winter sunlight. He thought her the
perfection of a woman--nay, more than a woman, a goddess. Diana, the
divine huntress, must have looked so, he fancied. He ran forward to
mount her on the fidgety Arion; but honest old Bates was too quick for
him; and she was looking down at Lord Mallow graciously from her perch
on the well-worn doeskin saddle before he had time to offer his
services.

She leaned over to pat Bullfinch's massive crest.

"Dear old horse," she murmured tenderly, remembering those winter
mornings of old when he had stood before the porch as he stood to-day,
waiting for the noble rider who was never more to mount him.

"Yet life goes on somehow without our beloved dead," thought Violet.

Her changeful face saddened at the idea, and she rode along the
shrubberied drive in silence.

"Where are you going to take us?" asked the Captain, when they had
emerged from the Abbey House grounds, crossed the coach-road, and made
their plunge into the first cart-track that offered itself.

"Everywhere," answered Vixen, with a mischievous laugh. "You have
chosen me for your guide, and all you have to do is to follow."

And she gave Arion a light touch with her hunting-crop, and cantered
gaily down the gently sloping track to a green lawn, which looked, to
Captain Winstanley's experienced eye, very much like a quaggy bog.

"Steer towards your left!" he cried anxiously to Lord Mallow.

If there was danger near Vixen managed to avoid it; she made a sweeping
curve, skirted the treacherous-looking lawn, and disappeared in another
cart-track, between silvery trunks of veteran beeches, self-sown in the
dark ages, with here and there a gnarled old oak, rugged and
lichen-mantled, with feathery tufts of fern nestling in the hollow
places between his gaunt limbs.

That was a ride! Lord Mal