On that morning Amethyst had been taken to London by her aunt; and, by no means so miserable as she thought she ought to have been, was delivered over to her father's care. Matters had settled themselves fairly pleasantly for Miss Haredale. Her house was let, and an old friend had asked her to go abroad with her for the summer, so that she was not left to solitude--a greater consolation just now to Amethyst than to herself. The girl felt the parting; but eager interest in the new old house, longing for her mother and sisters, and shy pleasure in her father's notice, overwhelmed the feeling and pushed it aside for the time. She was delighted when her father took her to lunch at Verey's, and enjoyed the strawberry ice which he gave her. She tried to adapt her conversation to what she supposed might be Lord Haredale's tastes, and asked him if the hunting near Cleverley was good. "Fond of riding, eh?" he said. "I haven't been out for years,--never was much in my line. But your aunt, she was the best horse-woman in the county. Fellows used to lay bets on what ugly places Annabel Haredale would go in for next. But she was up to the game, and when she was expected to show off would ride as if she were following a funeral--make them open all the gates for her, and then go ahead like a bird and distance everybody.--You'll do, if you have her hand at a horse's mouth, and her seat on the saddle." Amethyst found some difficulty in picturing her aunt flying over the country like a bird, and answered humbly-- "I never rode anything but Dobbin, the Rectory pony, papa; but he could take a flat ditch, if it wasn't too wide. I should like hunting." "Well, we'll see about it next winter. I'll manage to mount you, perhaps, somehow." "Oh, papa, I don't want anything that's any trouble. I like everything that comes handy." She smiled gaily as she spoke, and her sweet light-hearted look struck her father. "You take after my lady," he said aloud, and then under his moustaches, "and, by Jove! you'll cut her out too." Amethyst's gaiety subsided as they came to the little country station, and were driving through the lanes to Cleverley Hall. Her heart beat very fast--it was the intensest moment her young life had known. "Shy, eh?" said her father good-naturedly, as they reached the Hall. "Never mind--we take things easy. Visitors in the drawing-room, do you say?"--to the servant. "Generally are, I think. My lady would have made a circle of mermen and savages if she had been shipwrecked with Robinson Crusoe." Amethyst hardly heard; she followed her father into the long low room, full of misty afternoon sunlight. She did not heed that several figures rose hurriedly as they entered; she heard a clear sweet voice say-- "Why here she is! Here's my big girl!" and, full in the dazzle of that confusing sunlight, she saw her mothers slender figure and smiling face.