So far, he had been disappointed in the hope of seeing Daphne a frequent guest at Hawksyard, the petted companion and plaything of his mother. He had made for himself an almost Arcadian picture: Daphne basking on the stone bench in the Baconian garden; amusing herself with the poultry; even milking a cow on occasion; and making junkets in the picturesque old dairy. He had fancied her upstairs and downstairs, in my lady’s chamber; unearthing all Mrs. Turchill’s long-hoarded treasures of laces and ribbons, kept to be looked at rather than to be worn; sorting the house-linen, which would have stocked a Swiss hotel, and which ran the risk of perishing by slow decay upon its shelves or ever it was worn by usage. He had pictured her accepted as the daughter of the house; waking the solemn old echoes with her glad young voice; fondling his dogs; riding his hunters in the green lanes, and across the level fields. She was pining to ride; but of the six horses at South Hill there was not one which Sir Vernon would allow her to mount. The pleasant picture was as yet only a phantasm of the mind. Mrs. Turchill had not yet taken to Daphne. She was a good woman—truthful, honest, kindhearted—but she had her prejudices, and was passing obstinate. ‘I don’t deny her prettiness,’ she said, when Edgar tried to convince her that not to admire Daphne was a fault in herself, ‘but she is not a girl that I could ever make a friend of.’ ‘That’s because you don’t take the trouble to know her, mother. If you would ask her here oftener——’ ‘I hope I know my place, Edgar,’ said the mistress of the Grange stiffly. ‘If Miss Daphne Lawford wishes to improve my acquaintance she knows where to find me.’ But Daphne had taken no pains to secure to herself the advantages of Mrs. Turchill’s friendship. There was no particular reason why she should go to Hawksyard: so, after one solemn afternoon call with Madoline—on which occasion they were received with chilling formality in the best drawing-room: an apartment with an eight-foot oak dado, deeply-recessed mullioned windows, and a state bedroom adjoining—Daphne went there no more. And now here was a splendid opportunity of making her at home in the dear old house, and of showing her all the surroundings which its master loved and cherished. ‘BEST OF MOTHERS,’ wrote Edgar, ‘I am going to take you by storm this afternoon. We—Lina, Daphne, Mr. Goring, and I—are going to Shottery, and propose driving on to Hawksyard afterwards. Get up the best dinner you can at so short a notice, and give us your warmest welcome. You had better put out some of Hirsch’s Liebfraumilch and a little dry cham. for Goring. The girls drink only water. Let there be syllabubs and junkets and everything pastoral. Don’t ask anyone to meet them,’ added Edgar, with a dread of having the local parson projected on his love-feast; ‘we want a jolly, free-and-easy evening. Dinner at eight.—Your loving TED.’