Hazel breathed again when, on entering the drawing-room, one glance assured her that Digby was absent. There was the usual warm reception: Doris, Phyllis, and Francis, who was present with his mother and sisters, could not do enough for the young couple—surrounding them on all sides, besetting them with questions and attentions. Finally Hazel was ensconced upon the sofa—in the very middle—with cushions at her back, a hassock under her feet, Phyllis and Doris on either side of her, and Francis gracefully reclining on the floor in front of her. Mrs. Travers and Paul were seated together a little apart from this sociable group, but their interest seemed to be with it; the eyes of both were directed upon it and upon the little gracious central figure, and Paul could have embraced his hostess there and then for the affectionate admiration and motherly pride that beamed from her kind eyes. "I have congratulated you before," she said, turning to him, "many times, but I must do so again. I think you a very fortunate young man, and, if I may say so, I also think you are worthy of your happiness," she added warmly. "Ah no," disclaimed the devout lover, "who could be that? But I shall never cease to try to be so." "Do you always do your hair up now?" asked Phyllis of Hazel. "Always," she replied, "except week-ends, and when I am riding." "Riding?" Phyllis and Doris exclaimed in unison, breathless with interest. "Oh, do you ride? Who with?" "With him," Hazel replied, nodding towards Paul, without looking at him. "We go for the most lovely rides—twelve and fifteen miles." "Oh, how lovely." The breathless auditors were again in unison. "I wish I was engaged," sighed Phyllis. The elder sister nudged Hazel to gain her attention. "Try not to appear too happy," she whispered earnestly. "You know the trouble I have with her—how I try to keep her a child." Hazel nodded sympathetically. "But I am afraid I cannot help it," she whispered back. "I am so happy, you know. What shall I do?" she added helplessly. "Can’t you hint that for many things you are sorry that childhood is over?" suggested the demure maiden, anxiously regarding the fresh, sweet, rosy face, the happy brown eyes. "But I am not," Hazel replied, bluntly frank. "Oh, Doris, don’t keep Hazel all to yourself," Phyllis exclaimed plaintively. "Hazel, have you got a riding habit?" "Yes, a lovely one, made by a London tailor. Uncle Percival gave it me—he is always wanting to give me dresses, but mothie does not like him to." "What colour is it?" Doris asked, interested herself, and deeming her little sister’s interest in this subject—and possible envy—legitimate. "Brown," Hazel made answer—"almost exactly the colour of my horse." "Your horse?" "_He_ did," Hazel said, anticipating the question, again nodding in Paul’s direction. "How many hands?" inquired Francis from below. He had never taken his eyes from Hazel’s face. "Sixteen," she answered promptly.