May had come. The red glow of the beech-branches had changed to a tender green; the oaks were amber; the winding forest-paths, the deep inaccessible glades where the cattle led such a happy life, were blue with dog-violets and golden with primroses. Whitsuntide was close at hand, and good Mr. Scobel had given up his mind to church decoration, and the entertainment of his school-children with tea and buns in that delightful valley, where an iron monument, a little less artistic than a pillar post-office marks the spot where the Red King fell.

Vixen, though not particularly fond of school-feasts, had promised to assist at this one. It was not to be a stiff or ceremonious affair. There was to be no bevy of young ladies, oppressively attentive to their small charges, causing the children to drink scalding tea in a paroxysm of shyness. The whole thing was to be done in an easy and friendly manner; with no aid but that of the school-mistress and master. The magnates of the land were to have no part in the festival.

“The children enjoy themselves so much more when there are no finely-dressed people making believe to wait upon them,” said Mrs. Scobel; “but I know they’ll be delighted to have you, Violet. They positively adore you!”

“I’m sure I can’t imagine why they should,” answered Violet truthfully.

“Oh, but they do. They like to look at you. When you come into the school-room they’re all in a flutter; and they point at you awfully, don’t they, Miss Pierson?” said Mrs. Scobel, appealing to the school-mistress.

“Yes, ma’am. I can’t cure them of pointing, do what I will.”

“Oh, they are dear little children,” exclaimed Violet, “and I don’t care how much they point at me if they really like me. They make me such nice little bob-curtsies when I meet them in the Forest, and they all seem fond of Argus. I’m sure you have made them extremely polite, Miss Pierson. I shall be very pleased to come to your school-feast, Mrs. Scobel; and I’ll tell our good old Trimmer to make no end of cakes.”

“My dear Violet, pray don’t think of putting Mrs. Trimmer to any trouble. Your dear mamma might be angry.”

“Angry at my asking for some cakes for the school-children, after being papa’s wife for seventeen years! That couldn’t be.”

The school-feast was fixed, three weeks in advance, for the Wednesday in Whitsun week, and during the interval there were many small meteorologists in Beechdale school intent upon the changes of the moon, and all those varied phenomena from which the rustic mind draws its auguries of coming weather. The very crowing of early village cocks was regarded suspiciously by the school children at this period; and even the harmless domestic pussy, sitting with his back to the fire, was deemed a cat of evil omen.

It happened that the appointed Wednesday was a day on which Mrs. Tempest had chosen to invite a few friends in a quiet way to her seven o’clock dinner; among the few Captain Winstanley, who had taken Mrs. Hawbuck’s cottage for an extended period of three months. Mrs. Tempest had known all about the school-feast a fortnight before she gave her invitations, but had forgotten the date at the moment when she arranged her little dinner. Yet she felt offended that Violet should insist upon keeping her engagement to the Scobels.

“But, dear mamma, I am of no use to you at our parties,” pleaded Vixen; “if I were at all necessary to your comfort I would give up the school-feast.”

“My dear Violet, it is not my comfort I am considering; but I cannot help feeling annoyed that you should prefer to spend your evening with a herd of vulgar children — playing Oranges and Lemons, or Kiss in the Ring, or some other ridiculous game, and getting yourself into a most unbecoming perspiration — to a quiet home evening with a few friends.”

“You see, mamma, I know our quiet home evenings with a few friends so well. I could tell you beforehand exactly what will happen, almost the very words people will say — how your jardinières will be admired, and how the conversation will glance off from your ferns and pelargoniums to Lady Ellangowan’s orchids, and then drift back to your old china; after which the ladies will begin to talk about dress, and the wickedness of giving seven guineas for a summer bonnet, as Mrs Jones, or Green, or Robinson has just done; from which their talk will glide insensibly to the iniquities of modern servants; and when those have been discussed exhaustively, one of the younger ladies will tell you the plot of the last novel she has had from Mudie’s, with an infinite number of you knows and you sees, and then perhaps Captain Winstanley — he is coming, I suppose — will sing a French song, of which the company will understand about four words in every verse, and then you will show Mrs. Carteret your last piece of art needlework —”

“What nonsense you talk, Violet. However, if you prefer the children at Stony Cross to the society of your mother and your mother’s friends, you must take your own way.”

“And you will forgive me in advance, dear mamma?”

“My love, I have nothing to forgive. I only deplore a bent of mind which I can but think unladylike.”

Vixen was glad to be let off with so brief a lecture. In her heart of hearts she was not at all sorry that her mother’s friendly dinner should fall on a day which she had promised to spend elsewhere. It was a treat to escape the sameness of that polite entertainment. Yes, Captain Winstanley was to be there of course, and prolonged acquaintance had not lessened her dislike to that gentleman. She had seen him frequently during his residence at the Hawbuck cottage, not at her mother’s house only, but at all the best houses in the neighbourhood. He had done nothing to offend her. He had been studiously polite; and that was all. Not by one word had he reminded Violet of that moonlight walk in the Pavilion garden; not by so much as a glance or a sigh had he hinted at a hidden passion. So far she could make no complaint against him. But the attrition of frequent intercourse did not wear off the sharp edge of her dislike.

Wednesday afternoon came, and any evil auguries that had been drawn from the noontide crowing of restless village cocks was set at naught, for the weather was peerless: a midsummer sky and golden sunlight shone upon all things; upon white-walled cottages and orchards, and gardens where the pure lilies were beginning to blow, upon the yellow-green oak leaves and deepening bloom of the beech, and the long straight roads cleaving the heart of the Forest.

Violet had arranged to drive Mr. and Mrs. Scobel in her pony-carriage. She was at the door of their snug little Vicarage at three o’clock; the vivacious Titmouse tossing his head and jingling his bit in a burst of pettishness at the aggravating behaviour of the flies.

Mrs. Scobel came fluttering out, with the Vicar behind her. Both carried baskets, and behind them came an old servant, who had been Mrs. Scobel’s nurse, a woman with a figure like a hogshead of wine, and a funny little head at the top, carrying a third basket.

“The buns and bread have gone straight from the village,” said the Vicar’s wife. “How well you are looking, Violet. I hope dear Mrs. Tempest was not very angry at your coming with us.”

“Dear Mrs. Tempest didn’t care a straw,” Vixen answered, laughing. “But she thinks me wanting in dignity for liking to have a romp with the school-children.”

All the baskets were in by this time, and Titmouse was in a paroxysm of impatience; so Mr. and Mrs. Scobel seated themselves quickly, and Vixen gave her reins a little shake that meant Go, and off went the pony at a pace which was rather like running away.

The Vicar looked slightly uneasy.

“Does he always go as fast as this?” he inquired.

“Sometimes a good deal faster. He’s an old fencer, you know, and hasn’t forgotten his jumping days. But of course I don’t let him jump with the carriage.”

“I should think not,” ejaculated the Vicar; “unless you wanted to commit murder and suicide. Don’t you think you could make him go a little steadier? He’s going rather like a dog with a tin kettle at his tail, and if the kettle were to tip over ——”

“Oh, he’ll settle down presently,” said Vixen coolly. “I don’t want to interfere with him; it makes him ill-tempered. And if he were to take to kicking ——”

“If you’ll pull him up, I think I’ll get out and walk,” said Mr. Scobel, the back of whose head was on a level with the circle which the pony’s hoofs would have been likely to describe in the event of kicking.

“Oh, please don’t!” cried Vixen. “If you do that I shall think you’ve no confidence in my driving.”

She pulled Titmouse together, and coaxed him into an unobjectionable trot; a trot which travelled over the ground very fast, without giving the occupants of the carriage the uncomfortable sensation of sitting behind a pony intent on getting to the sharp edge of the horizon and throwing himself over.

They were going up a long hill. Halfway up they came to the gate of the kennels. Violet looked at it with a curious half-reluctant glance that expressed the keenest pain.

“Poor papa,” she sighed. “He never seemed happier than when he used to take me to see the hounds.”

“Mr. Vawdrey is to have them next year,” said Mrs. Scobel. “That seems right and proper. He will be the biggest man in this part of the country when the Ashbourne and Briarwood estates are united. And the Duke cannot live very long — a man who gives his mind to eating and drinking, and is laid up with the gout twice a year.”

“Do you know when they are to be married?” asked Vixen, with an unconcerned air.

“At the end of this year, I am told. Lady Jane died last November. They would hardly have the wedding before a twelvemonth was over. Have you seen much of Mr. Vawdrey since he came back?”

“I believe I have seen him three times: once at Lady Southminster’s ball; once when he came to call upon mamma; once at kettledrum at Ellangowan, where he was in attendance upon Lady Mabel. He looked rather like a little dog at the end of a string; he had just that meekly-obedient look, combined with an expression of not wanting to be there, which you see in a dog. If I were engaged, I would not take my fiancée to kettledrums.”

“Ah, Violet, when are you going to be engaged?” cried Mrs. Scobel, in a burst of playfulness. “Where is the man worthy of you?”

“Nowhere; unless Heaven would make me such a man as my father.”

“You and Mr. Vawdrey were such friends when you were girl and boy. I used sometimes to fancy that childish friendship of yours would lead to a lasting attachment.”

“Did you? That was a great mistake. I am not half good enough for Mr. Vawdrey. I was well enough for a playfellow, but he wants something much nearer perfection in a wife.”

“But your tastes are so similar.”

“The very reason we should not care for each other.”

“‘In joining contrasts lieth love’s delight.’ That’s what a poet has said, yet I can’t quite believe that, Violet.”

“But you see the event proves the poet’s axiom true. Here is my old playfellow, who cares for nothing but horses and hounds and a country life, devotedly attached to Lady Mabel Ashbourne, who reads Greek plays with as much enjoyment as other young ladies derive from a stirring novel, and who hasn’t an idea or an attitude that is not strictly aesthetic.”

“Do you know, Violet, I am very much afraid that this marriage is rather the result of calculation than of genuine affection?” said Mrs. Scobel solemnly.

“Oh, no doubt it will be a grand thing to unite Ashbourne and Briarwood, but Roderick Vawdrey is too honourable to marry a girl he could not love. I would never believe him capable of such baseness,” answered Violet, standing up for her old friend.

Here they turned out of the Forest and drove through a peaceful colony consisting of half-a-dozen cottages, a rustic inn where reigned a supreme silence and sleepiness, and two or three houses in old-world gardens.

Vixen changed the conversation to buns and school-children, which agreeable theme occupied them till Titmouse had walked up a tremendously steep hill, the Vicar trudging through the dust beside him; and then the deep green vale in which Rufus was slain lay smiling in the sunshine below their feet.

Perhaps the panorama to be seen from the top of that hill is absolutely the finest in the Forest — a vast champaign, stretching far away to the white walls, tiled roofs, and ancient abbey-church of Romsey; here a glimpse of winding water, there a humble village — nameless save for its inhabitants — nestling among the trees, or basking in the broad sunshine of a common.

At the top of the hill, Bates, the gray-headed groom, who had attended Violet ever since her first pony-ride, took possession of Titmouse and the chaise, while the baskets were handed over to a lad, who had been on the watch for their arrival. Then they all went down the steep path into the valley, at the bottom of which the children were swarming in a cluster, as thick as bees, while a pale flame and a cloud of white smoke went up from the midst of them like the fire beneath a sacrifice. This indicated the boiling of the kettle, in true gipsy fashion.

For the next hour and a half tea-drinking was the all-absorbing business with everybody. The boiling of the kettle was a grand feature in the entertainment. Cups and saucers were provided by a little colony of civilised gipsies, who seem indigenous to the spot, and whose summer life is devoted to assisting at picnics and tea-drinkings, telling fortunes, and selling photographs. White cloths were spread upon the short sweet turf, and piles of bread-and-butter, cake and buns, invited the attention of the flies.

Presently arose the thrilling melody of a choral grace, with the sweet embellishment of a strong Hampshire accent. And then, with a swoop as of eagles on their quarry, the school-children came down upon the mountains of bread-and-butter, and ate their way manfully to the buns and cake.

Violet had never been happier since her return to Hampshire than she felt that sunny afternoon, as she moved quickly about, ministering to these juvenile devourers. The sight of their somewhat bovine contentment took her thoughts away from her own cares and losses; and presently, when the banquet was concluded — a conclusion only arrived at by the total consumption of everything provided, whereby the hungry-eyed gipsy attendants sunk into despondency — Vixen constituted herself Lord of Misrule, and led off a noisy procession in the time-honoured game of Oranges and Lemons, which entertainment continued till the school-children were in a high fever. After this they had Kiss in the Ring; Vixen only stipulating, before she began, that nobody should presume to drop the handkerchief before her. Then came Touchwood — a game charmingly adapted to that wooded valley, where the trees looked as if they had been planted at convenient distances on purpose for this juvenile sport.

“Oh, I am so tired,” cried Violet at last, when church clocks — all out of earshot in this deep valley — were striking eight, and the low sun was golden on the silvery beech-boles, and the quiet half-hidden water-pools under the trees yonder; “I really don’t think I can have anything to do with the next game.”

“Oh, if you please, miss,” cried twenty shrill young voices, “oh, if you please, miss, we couldn’t play without you — you’re the best on us!”

This soothing flattery had its effect.

“Oh, but I really don’t think I can do more than start you,” sighed Vixen, flushed and breathless, “what is it to be?”

“Blindman’s Buff,” roared the boys.

“Hunt the Slipper,” screamed the girls.

“Oh, Blindman’s Buff is best,” said Vixen. “This little wood is a splendid place for Blindman’s Buff. But mind, I shall only start you. Now then, who’s to be Blindman?”

Mr. Scobel volunteered. He had been a tranquil spectator of the sports hitherto; but this was the last game, and he felt that he ought to do something more than look on. Vixen blindfolded him, asked him the usual question about his father’s stable, and then sent him spinning amongst the moss-grown beeches, groping his way fearfully, with outstretched arms, amidst shrillest laughter and noisest delight.

He was not long blindfold, and had not had many bumps against the trees before he impounded the person of a fat and scant-of-breath scholar, a girl whose hard breathing would have betrayed her neighbourhood to the dullest ear.

“That’s Polly Sims, I know,” said the Vicar.

It was Polly Sims, who was incontinently made as blind as Fortune or Justice, or any other of the deities who dispense benefits to man. Polly floundered about among the trees for a long time, making frantic efforts to catch the empty air, panting like a human steam-engine, and nearly knocking out what small amount of brains she might possess against the gray branches, outstretched like the lean arms of Macbeth’s weird women across her path. Finally Polly Sims succeeded in catching Bobby Jones, whom she clutched with the tenacity of an octopus; and then came the reign ............