The snowy linen and bright silver and china of the breakfast-table sparkle in the sunshine. At a corner, Violet and Katie sit before a covered tray, hastily taking their porridge; for the breakfast is much later than usual this morning, and the children are in great haste, lest they should be too late for school. Rose is working at the corner window--the new window, where the white rose bush nods up to her, and lays a snowy fragrant present of buds upon the window-ledge; but Martha stands silently, as she stood last morning, to watch Harry go away, and again pulls with unconscious fingers the jasmine flowers. “Who is that?” repeated Agnes. It is only a groom leading up and down, on the broad gravel walk at the other side of the lawn, a fine horse, stately and impatient, which scorns its limited space, and paws the gravel disdainfully, and arches its proud neck to the infinite admiration of the Dragon and John, who stand by the holly hedge as spectators. Katie and Violet, attracted by the repetition of Agnes’s question, rush from the window to the door to ascertain; and after a brief conversation with Dragon, Violet returns, breathless, with the information, that it is a new riding-horse, sent out this morning from Stirling, where Harry bought it yesterday; but that Dragon says it is too wild a horse for any but a bold rider, and that it is sure to throw Mr. Hairy. “Tell Dragon he’s an old fool, and that he had better think what he says,” said Harry himself, who suddenly made his appearance as Violet spoke; “and you, Lettie, mind your own business, and don’t be so officious in reporting what everybody tells you. Why don’t you get these children off to school, Agnes? Yes, it’s my horse. I hope no one has any objection.” Poor Harry! in this morning light, his own conscience has weighty objections, and upbraids him with folly and extravagance. But Harry feels miserable, and is not well--angry with himself, and defiant of all around him--and he feels himself bound in honour to defend his horse. But no one attacks it; poor little Agnes is only anxious and deprecatory, eager to smile away his impatience, and cheer the depression which she very well knows is sure to follow; while Martha still stands at the open window, without ever turning her head, and vacantly draws the long, pliant branch of jasmine through her fingers, and says not a word. “They are just going away,” said Agnes, hastily tying on the bonnet which Lettie had brought in her hand; “they have just breakfasted, you see, Harry. We are rather late this morning; and Mr. Charteris is not down stairs yet.”