‘Oh, he is going to the tennis-ground!’ shrieks Betty distractedly; and, indeed, the cock, with a view of circumventing the enemy, is making for that broad course. At the rustic gateway, however, that leads to it from the garden, a third enemy appears upon the scene—an enemy that takes off his hat, and makes such a magnificent attack with it that the cock, disheartened, gives way in turn, retreats, _chassés_ a little, and finally, with a wild skirl, swoops over the garden wall after his wives, and is gone. ‘It was a famous victory!’ cries Mr. Crosby, when the defeat of the cock is beyond doubt. He is looking at Susan. Such a lovely, flushed, and laughter-filled Susan! A Susan with soft locks flying into her beauteous eyes. A Susan with soft parted lips, and breath coming in little merry gasps. ‘You were just in time,’ cries she, running up to him, with happy _camaraderie_ in her smile. ‘But for you, we should have been hunting him all over the place. What lucky fortune brought you at this moment?’—smiling blandly into his eyes and giving him her hand. ‘Just happening to be passing by?’ ‘No, I was coming to see you all,’ says Crosby. He has nearly stopped at the ‘you,’ but she looks so young, so without a thought behind her, that he feels it would be useless. She would not understand, and even if she did it would only annoy her. A girl of the world—that would be different. She would laugh at this suggestion of a flirtation; but Susan— ‘Well, come and see us all,’ says Betty gaily. ‘We’re all round the corner, I fancy.’ And, indeed, most of them are, the children in the far distance chasing butterflies with a net just constructed by Dom, whilst he and Carew are listening with apparently engrossed interest to their aunt, who, with curls shaking and an air of general excitement about her, is holding forth. ‘Is that you at last, Susan?’ says she, shaking her curls more vigorously than ever. ‘Where have you been?—How d’ye do, Mr. Crosby?—I must say, Susan, you are never to be found when wanted.’ ‘The hens got into the garden,’ begins Susan, colouring a little beneath this rebuke uttered before Crosby. ‘Oh, hens! What are hens,’ cries Miss Barry tragically, ‘when human beings are dying?’ ‘Dying?’ ‘Yes. I’ve just been to see poor dear Miss Blake, and I really believe she is at death’s door.’ ‘Oh, I am sorry!’ says Susan. ‘She’s been at that uncomfortable portal for the past year,’ says Betty, with distinct scorn. ‘In my opinion, it would take a lot of pushing to make her pass it.’ ‘Elizabeth, this frivolity is absolutely disgraceful,’ says Miss Barry, directing a withering glance at Betty, who, it must be said, bears up beneath it with the utmost fortitude. ‘Dr. Mulcahy was with her. I’ve always thought him a distinctly vulgar person, and really, after what he said of poor Miss Blake to-day, I feel justified in my opinion.’ ‘What did he say, auntie?’