s by the warmth of this canine
greeting.

"Thank God! there are some living things that love me," she exclaimed.

"Something that loves you!" cried a voice from the door of the yard.
"Does not everything noble or worthy love you, as it loves all that is
beautiful?"

Turning quickly, with a scared look, Violet saw Roderick Vawdrey
standing in the doorway.

He stood quietly watching her, his dark eyes softened with a look of
tender admiration. There could hardly have been a prettier picture than
the tall girlish figure and bright chestnut head, the fair face bending
over the upturned noses of the hounds as they clustered round her, some
standing up with their strong white paws upon her shoulder, some
nestling at her knees. Her hat had fallen off, and was being trampled
under a multitude of restless feet.

Rorie came into the little yard. The huntsman cracked his whip, and the
hounds went tumbling one over the other into their house, where they
leaped upon their straw bed, and grouped themselves as if they had been
sitting for their portraits to Sir Edwin Landseer. Two inquisitive
fellows stood up with their paws upon the ledge of the barred window,
and looked out at Violet and the new master.

"I did not know you were at Briarwood," she said, as they shook hands.

"I only came home last night. My first visit was naturally here. I
wanted to see if everything was in good order."

"When do you begin to hunt?"

"On the first of October. You are going to be amongst us this year, of
course."

"No. I have never followed the hounds since papa's death. I don't
suppose I ever shall again."

"What, not with your stepfather?"

"Certainly not with Captain Winstanley."

"Then you must marry a hunting-man," said Rorie gaily. "We can't afford
to lose the straightest rider in the Forest."

"I am not particularly in love with hunting--for a woman. There seems
something bloodthirsty in it. And Bates says that if ladies only knew
how their horses' backs get wrung in the hunting season, they would
hardly have the heart to hunt. It was very nice to ride by papa's side
when I was a little girl. I would have gone anywhere with him--through
an Indian jungle after tigers--but I don't care about it now."

"Well, perhaps you are right; though I should hardly have expected such
mature wisdom from my old playfellow, whose flowing locks used once to
be the cynosure of the hunting-field. And now, Violet--I may call you
Violet, may I