As he parted the magnolia branches the hound sprang quickly forward at some object beneath the tree, with a low, hoarse growl. "Down, Towser, down!" cried Rex Lyon, leaping lightly over some intervening brushwood. "What kind of game have we here? Whew!" he ejaculated, surprisedly; "a young girl, pretty as a picture, and, by the eternal, fast asleep, too!" Still Daisy slept on, utterly unconscious of the handsome brown eyes that were regarding her so admiringly. "I have often heard of fairies, but this is the first time I have ever caught one napping under the trees. I wonder who she is anyhow? Surely she can not be some drudging farmer's daughter with a form and face like that?" he mused, suspiciously eying the basket of freshly laundered laces against which the flushed cheeks and waving golden hair rested. Just then his ludicrous position struck him forcibly. "Come, Towser," he said, "it would never do for you and me to be caught staring at this pretty wood-nymph so rudely, if she should by chance awaken just now." Tightening the strap of his game-bag over his shoulder, and readjusting his velvet cap jauntily over his brown curls, Rex was about to resume his journey in the direction of Whitestone Hall, when the sound of rapidly approaching carriage-wheels fell upon his ears. Realizing his awkward position, Rex knew the wisest course he could possibly pursue would be to screen himself behind the magnolia branches until the vehicle should pass. The next instant a pair of prancing ponies, attached to a basket phaeton, in which sat a young girl, who held them well in check, dashed rapidly up the road. Rex could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise as he saw the occupant was his young hostess, Pluma Hurlhurst of Whitestone Hall. She drew rein directly in front of the sleeping girl, and Rex Lyon never forgot, to his dying day, the discordant laugh that broke from her red lips--a laugh which caused poor Daisy to start from her slumber in wild alarm, scattering the snowy contents of the basket in all directions. For a single instant their eyes met--these two girls, whose lives were to cross each other so strangely--poor Daisy, like a frightened bird, as she guessed intuitively at the identity of the other; Pluma, haughty, derisive, and scornfully mocking. "You are the person whom Miss Brooks sent to Whitestone Hall with my mull dresses some three hours since, I presume. May I ask what detained you?" Poor Daisy was quite crestfallen; great tear-drops trembled on her long lashes. How could she answer? She had fallen asleep, wooed by the lulling breeze and the sunshine. "The basket was so heavy," she answered, timidly, "and I--I--sat down to rest a few moments, and--" "Further explanation is quite unnecessary," retorted Pluma, sharply, gathering up the reins. "See that you have those things at the Hall within ten minutes; not an instant later."