heap of dusty jewels. Bars of sunlight
slanted on wall and rug, on stone floor and carved staircase, on the
bronze foliations of the railed gallery above, where, in the golden
gloom through a high window, sun-tipped tree tops against a sky of azure
stirred like burnished foliage in a tapestry.

"There is nobody here, of course," observed Miss Landis to Siward as
they halted in front of the fire-place; "the season opens to-day in this
county, you see." She shrugged her pretty shoulders: "And the women who
don't shoot make the first field-luncheon a function."

She turned, nodded her adieux, then, over her shoulder, casually: "If
you haven't an appointment with the Sand-Man before dinner you may find
me in the gun-room."

"I'll be there in about three minutes," he said; "and what about this
dog?"--looking down at the Sagamore pup who stood before him, wagging,
attentive, always the gentleman to the tips of his toes.

Miss Landis laughed. "Take him to your room if you like. Dogs have the
run of the house."

So he followed a servant to the floor above where a smiling and very
ornamental maid preceded him through a corridor and into that heavy wing
of the house which fronted the sea.

"Tea is served in the gun-room, sir," said the pretty maid, and
disappeared to give place to a melancholy and silent young man who
turned on the bath, laid out fresh raiment, and whispering, "Scotch or
Irish, sir?" presently effaced himself.

Before he quenched his own thirst Siward filled a bowl and set it on the
floor, and it seemed as though the dog would never finish gulping and
slobbering in the limpid icy water.

"It's the salt air, my boy," commented the young man, gravely refilling
his own glass as though accepting the excuse on his own account.

Then man and beast completed ablutions and grooming and filed out
through the wide corridor, around the gallery, and down the broad
stairway to the gun-room--an oaken vaulted place illuminated by the sun,
where mellow lights sparkled on glass-cased rows of fowling pieces and
rifles, on the polished antlers of shaggy moose heads.

Miss Landis sat curled up in a cushioned corner under the open casement
panes, offering herself a cup of tea. She looked up, nodding invitation;
he found a place beside her. A servant whispered, "Scotch or Irish,
sir," then set the crystal paraphernalia at his elbow.

He said something about the salt air, casually; the girl gazed
meditatively at space.