Taffy was still fumbling with his jacket-button when a bell sounded, clanging through the house. “The parson!” Squire Moyle clutched at his Bible like a child who has been caught playing in school. Sir Harry stepped to the window and flung up the sash. “Out you tumble, youngsters--you too, Miss, if you like. Pick up your coat, George--cut and run to the stables; I’ll be round in a minute--quick, out you go!” The children scrambled over the sill and dropped on to the stone terrace. As his father closed the sash behind him, George Vyell laughed out. Then Taffy began to laugh; he laughed all the way as they ran. When they reached the stables he was swaying with laughter. There was a hepping-stock by the stable-wall, and he flung himself on to the slate steps. He could not stop laughing. The two others stared at him. They thought he had gone mad. “Here comes Dad!” cried George Vyell. This sobered Taffy. He sat up and brushed his eyes. Sir Harry whistled for Jim, and told him to saddle the horses. George and Honoria stood by the stable-door and watched the saddling. The horses were led out; Sir Harry’s, a tall grey, George’s, a roan cob. “Look here!” Sir Harry said to Jim; “you take my bird, and comfort your master with him. I don’t want him any more.” The two rode out of the yard and away up the avenue. Honoria planted herself in front of Taffy. “Would you have fought just now?” she asked. “I--I don’t know. That’s my father calling.” “But, would you have fought?” “I must go to him.” He would not look her in the face. “Tell me.” “Don’t bother! I don’t know.” He ran out of the yard. CHAPTER VII. GEORGE. It appeared that Honoria and Taffy were to do lessons together, and Mr. Raymond was to teach them. This had been the meaning of his visit to Tredinnis House. They began the very next day in the library at Tredinnis--a deserted room carpeted with badgers’ skins, and lined with undusted books--works on farriery, veterinary surgery, and sporting subjects, long rows of the _Annual Register_, the _Arminian Magazine_. Taffy began by counting the badgers’ skins. There were eighteen, and the moths had got into them, so that the draught under the door puffed little drifts of hair over the polished boards. Then he settled down to the first Latin declension--_Musa_, a muse; vocative, _Musa_, O muse!; genitive, Musae, of a muse. Honoria began upon the ABC. Mr. Raymond brought a pile of his own books, and worked at them, scribbling notes in the margin or on long slips of paper, while the children learnt. A servant came in with a message from Squire Moyle, and he left them for a while. “I call this nonsense,” said Honoria. “How am I to get these silly letters into my head?”