“I can’t leave mother,” was the answer. It would never do to have Miles Cylmer see her seated in Cristiane’s high dog-cart for the first time since that night in London. Somehow or other, she must manage to meet him first alone. And as yet she had no idea even where he lived. “I suppose you can’t,” Cristiane assented disappointedly. “I will ride over then by myself, but that’s dull.” “Haven’t you any near neighbors?” Both girls stood by the window as Ismay spoke. “Only Miles Cylmer, and he hunts,” said Cristiane crossly. “Besides, even he lives four miles off, that much nearer to the meet than we do. It’s seven miles to Stoneycross by that road you see there,” pointing to a glimpse of a highway that was just visible on the side of a hill far across the park. “Then he’s of no use.” Ismay turned into the room again to hide the change in her face. Hurrah! she had got her bearings at last. If she had to wait all day at his gate she would see him face to face this very afternoon. “You won’t be dull if I go out and leave you alone? You see, I am used to riding every day. But it is stupid for you,” said Cristiane. “Dull! I’m never dull.” Miss Trelane’s face wore that strange smile that was so full of years and knowledge, her back still turned safely to her hostess. Dull, with the prospect before her of hunting down Miles Cylmer! She turned with quick, lovely grace. “Come, and I’ll help you into your habit,” she cried; “I’m much cleverer than your maid.” “I think you’re wonderful; how you do your own hair as you do is beyond me,” Cristiane said, as they went up-stairs. They were nearly of a height, and she ran her hand up the wonderful flaxen waves that rippled up from the nape of Ismay’s white neck. The girl frowned sharply. “It’s hateful hair.” She moved her head away from the gentle hand. In any case, she hated to be touched, and it was unbearable from a simple little fool like Cristiane, who took her and her mother for decent ladies. “Hateful! Some day I shall dye it,” and she slipped from the other girl’s side and was up-stairs like a flash. Yet two hours after she was coiling and twisting that hair she had said was hateful, with a care that made it look like golden threads shot with silver. The dark-green, velvet toque she set on it made its strange sheen more lovely; the green cloth coat with its velvet collar set off to perfection the milk-white beauty of her face. As she turned from the glass to draw on her gloves her scarlet lips parted in a smile of triumph. Queer as her beauty was, it would move the heart of a man more than Cristiane’s roses and cream, or there was no truth in her glass. “Let me see,” she reflected, “four miles to Cylmer’s Ferry--he will be at the meet and following the hounds--if they find a fox it will be three o’clock or so before he gets home, perhaps later. There’s heaps of time, but I had better get off before Cristiane gets home, or she might be kind enough to go with me.”