ng
billiards."

"Glimpses of purgatory, which make his heaven all the more divine,"
said Rorie. "Well, it is none of my business, as you said just now.
There are people born to be happy, I suppose; creatures that come into
the world under a lucky star."

"Undoubtedly, and among them notably Mr. Vawdrey, who has everything
that the heart of a reasonable man can desire."

"So had Solomon, and yet he made his moan."

"Oh, there is always a crumpled rose-leaf in everybody's bed. And if
the rose-leaves were all smooth, a man would crumple one on purpose, in
order to have something to grumble about. Hark, Rorie!" cried Vixen,
with a sudden change of tone, as the first silvery chime of Ringwood
bells came floating over the woodland distance--the low moon-lit hills;
"don't be cross. The old year is dying. Remember the dear days that are
gone, when you and I used to think a new year a thing to be glad about.
And now, what can the new years bring us half so good as that which the
old ones have taken away?"

She had slipped her little gloved hand through his arm, and drawn very
near to him, moved by tender thoughts of the past. He looked clown at
her with eyes from which all anger had vanished. There was only love in
them--deep love; love such as a very affectionate brother might
perchance give his only sister--but it must be owned that brothers
capable of such love are rare.

"No, child," he murmured sadly. "Years to come can bring us nothing so
good or so dear as the past. Every new year will drift us farther."

They were standing at the end of the terrace farthest from the orangery
windows, out of which the Duchess and her visitors came trooping to
hear the Ringwood chimes. Rorie and Vixen kept quite apart from the
rest. They stood silent, arm-in-arm, looking across the landscape
towards the winding Avon and the quiet market-town, hidden from them by
intervening hill. Yonder, nestling among those grassy hills, lies
Moyles Court, the good old English manor-house where noble Alice Lisle
sheltered the fugitives from Sedgemoor; paying for that one act of
womanly hospitality with her life. Farther away, on the banks of the
Avon, is the quiet churchyard where that gentle martyr of Jeffreys's
lust for blood takes her long rest. The creeping spicenwort thrives
amidst the gray stones of her tomb. To Vixen these things were so
familiar, that it was as if she could see them with her bodily eyes, as
she looked across the distance,