ulse that had made her speak. She forgot it, however,
in the _tableaux vivants_ which they were preparing for the evening, in
which she and Charles illustrated the syllable _nun_ to enthusiastic
applause. Ruth represented the nun, engaged in conversation, over the
lowest imaginable convent wall, with Charles, in all the glory of his
cocked hat and deputy-lieutenant's uniform, who, while he held the nun's
hand in one of his, pointed persuasively with the other towards an
elaborately caparisoned war-horse, trembling beneath the joint weight of
a yeomanry saddle and a side-saddle attached behind it, which
considerably overlapped the charger's impromptu fur boa tail.

After the _tableaux_ there was dancing in acting costume, at which the
two men, who acted the war-horse between them were the only persons to
protest, Lady Grace being beautiful as an improvised Anne Boleyn, and
the shy man resplendent in a fancy dress of Charles's.

When the third morning came, Ruth gave a genuine sigh at the thought
that it was the last day. Lady Grace, who was also leaving the following
morning, may be presumed to have echoed it with far more sorrow. The
Wyndhams were going that day, and disappeared down the drive, waving
handkerchiefs, and carriage-rugs, and hats on sticks, out of the
carriage-windows, as is the custom of really amusing people when taking
leave.

In the afternoon, Lady Grace and Charles went off for a ride alone
together, to see some ruin in which Lady Grace had manifested a sudden
interest, the third horse, which had been brought round for another of
the men, being sent back to the stables, his destined rider having
decided, at the eleventh hour, to join the rest of the party in a little
desultory rabbit shooting in the park, which he proceeded to do with
much chuckling over his extraordinary penetration and tact.

The elder ladies went out driving, looking, as seen from an upper
window, like four poached eggs on a dish; and the coast being clear,
Ruth, who had no love of driving, escaped with her paint-box to the
garden, where she was making a sketch of Stoke Moreton.

Some houses, like people, have dignity. Stoke Moreton, with ivy creeping
up its mellow sandstone, and peeping into its long lines of mullioned
windows, stood solemn and stately amid its level gardens; the low sun,
bringing out every line of carved stone frieze and quaint architrave,
firing all the western windows, and touching the tall heads of the
ho