account; and
many a simple heart burned with indignation at the idea that the
Squire's golden-haired daughter was being "put upon."

One bright afternoon in the Christmas holidays Vixen consented, half
reluctantly, to let Lord Mallow accompany her in her visits among the
familiar faces. That was a rare day for the Squire's old pensioners.
The Irishman's pockets were full of half-crowns and florins and
sixpences for the rosy-faced, bare-footed, dirty, happy children.

"It puts me in mind of the old country," he said, when he had made
acquaintance with the interior of half-a-dozen cottages. "The people
seem just as kind and friendly, and improvident, and idle, and
happy-go-lucky as my friends at home. That old Sassenach Forester, now,
that we saw sitting in the winter sun, drinking his noon-day pint, on a
bench outside a rustic beer-shop, looking the very image of rustic
enjoyment--what Irishman could take life more lightly or seem better
pleased with himself? a freeborn child of the sun and wind, ready to
earn his living anyhow, except by the work of his hands. Yes, Miss
Tempest, I feel a national affinity to your children of the Forest. I
wish I were Mr. Vawdrey, and bound to spend my life here."

"Why, what would life be to you if you had not Ould Ireland to fight
for?" cried Vixen, smiling at him.

"Life would be simply perfect for me if I had----"

"What?" asked Vixen, as he came to a sudden stop.

"The dearest wish of my heart. But I dare not tell you what that is yet
awhile."

Vixen felt very sorry she had asked the question. She looked wildly
round for another cottage. They had just done the last habitation in a
straggling village in the heart of the woods. There was nothing human
in sight by which the conversation might be diverted from the
uncomfortable turn it had just taken. Yes; yonder under the beechen
boughs Vixen descried a small child with red legs, like a Jersey
partridge, dragging a smaller child by the arm, ankle-deep in the
sodden leaves. To see them, and to dart across the wet grass towards
them were almost simultaneous.

"Tommy," cried Vixen, seizing the red-legged child, "why do you never
come to the Abbey House?"

"Because Mrs. Trimmer says there's nothing for me," lisped the infant.
"The new master sells the milk up in Lunnun."

"Laudable economy," exclaimed Vixen to Lord Mallow, who had followed
her into the damp woodland and heard the boy's answer. "The poor old
Abbey House can ha