Lady Margaret was a perpetual wonder to De Vaux, after she was at ease with him, and he could remark how constantly she was occupied, and how fresh and unflagging was her interest in whatever she was engaged with, whether it was reading a new book, or drawing an original design for the countess’s work, or borrowing a hint from the castle schools for her own schools, or learning from Mrs. Woods the hen-wife, or Forbes the gardener, the last plans for prairie chickens and orchises. She was as ardent as a child, and her ardour knew no decrease. She carried about with her a perennial spring of gladness, which was not impaired by her earnestness and seriousness; for she could be very earnest and serious on grave topics, and she was not an ignorant girl—I mean, not ignorant of the sorrowful, terrible verities of life. She had been brought up in a family that took a deep interest in humanity at large, and were early accustomed to see the world as it is, and not to fear to soil their raiment by coming in contact with the draggled garments of others. These people were possessed with a passion of humanity, the fervent conviction that to the pure all things are pure, while to the strong and the good is appointed, under God’s grace, the task of supporting and bringing back the weak and the bad. De Vaux believed that Lady Margaret’s mind had been too great for her body—not that she was exceptionally clever, only unboundedly sympathetic, unweariedly helpful. But all the drain of the sympathy and help she afforded, in addition to the delicate health she had suffered, did not suffice to take the girlish lightheartedness and mirth out of her, after it was no longer checked by her first reserve. He was amused watching her in the park one day, when she thought she was alone with Carlo. She had a bit of stick in her hand, which she was throwing away from her with a great show of _empressement_, to encourage the dog to follow and pick it up. He could guess she was saying, “I should like to see you run for a bit of fun. Good dog. Oh dear! is there no fun in you?—I know there is very little left in your master. I wonder if you can run, except after a hare. If you only would, I think it might shake you up, and put a little spirit in you. Of course I should not expect you to run like my Buzfuz or Berry’s Reiver; but if you would just try a little bit to please me.” All that she got Carlo to do was to wag his tail as if he were shaking his head. “I believe the brute thinks it would lower his dignity and mine if he were to run,” said De Vaux to himself, impatiently. He could have found it in his heart to rise up from under the tree where he lay, and go and run for her delectation, and to show her that he could run, though he had not exerted his long legs, save at cricket, since they were short legs, and had done their best at football.