With all the efforts she could make Evelyn did not succeed in forming anything but the most slight acquaintance with her stepson, and neither (which was more extraordinary still) did his father attain to more than an acquaintance. Sometimes Archie would be drawn into an expression of opinion on a political subject, which naturally was, as a rule, in opposition to his father, and at once crushed by him; upon which the boy with not unnatural wrath returned into his shell more closely than before. One time, indeed, Evelyn had found herself on the very verge of attaining his confidence, or so at least she thought. It was on the day--momentous day--when Rankin judged the two little dogs to be sufficiently mature to be sent home to their master. They were brought up to the great door, which was at one end of the colonnade. Nothing more amusing could be than the two little bundles of fur and fun deposited at her feet by Sandy the groom, who was delighted with his errand, though a little discomposed to find nobody but “the mistress.” “They’ll be for the young gentleman,” he said shamefaced. “What delightful little things,” said Evelyn, who, like all well-conditioned persons, loved dogs. “Go and find Mr. Archibald, Sandy. I’ll take care of them till he comes.” When Archie appeared in great haste and for once glowing with pleasure, he found her seated in the centre of a great rug on the floor of the hall with the two little dogs in convulsions of delight beside her, barking, biting, rolling and struggling upon the soft carpet, and undaunted with the something so unknown to them--a lady in a soft silken dress to play with. Perhaps the little things recognised only this of Evelyn’s many excellences, that she wore an exceptionally soft gown--not like Jenny Rankin’s rough homespun. Dogs are very susceptible to this superiority of texture. “Come and look at your doggies, Archie,” she said without looking up. “I have taken possession of them, or they have taken possession of me. Where did you find such delights? There is nothing so nice as a puppy, except a baby perhaps--and you, I know, would not appreciate that.” “Why would I not appreciate that?” said Archie roughly (being thereto moved by suggestions from Aunty Jane.) Mrs. Rowland gave a glance up at the clouded countenance of the sullen boy, surprised but saying nothing, and he ended as he generally did when alone with her, by feeling ashamed of himself. “They’re Rankin’s doggies--a particular breed,” he added more civilly than usual to make up. “He’s the old gamekeeper, and he’s given himself up to dogues ever since his accident.” This was quite a long speech for Archie to make. “He has given himself up to it with great success,” said Evelyn. “You must take me to see him. These are just at the most delightful stage. I said there was nothing so nice except a baby. But kittens are almost as nice before they grow to be cats.”