It was a delightful room on a chill October evening like this: the logs roaring up the wide chimney, a pair of bronze candelabra lighting buffet and table, Mrs. Tempest smiling pleasantly at her unbidden guest, and the squire stooping, red-faced and plethoric, over his mulligatawny; while Vixen, who was at an age when dinner is a secondary consideration, was amusing herself with the dogs, gentlemanly animals, too wellbred to be importunate in their demands for an occasional tid-bit, and content to lie in superb attitudes, looking up at the eaters patiently, with supplication in their great pathetic brown eyes. "Rorie is going up to-morrow--not in a balloon, but to Magdalen College, Oxford--so, as this was his last night, I made him come to dinner," explained Vixen presently. "I hope I didn't do wrong." "Rorie knows he's always welcome. Have some more of that mulligatawny, my lad, it's uncommonly good." Rorie declined the mulligatawny, being at this moment deeply engaged in watching Vixen and the dogs. Nip, the liver-coloured pointer, was performing his celebrated statue feat. With his forelegs stiffly extended, and his head proudly poised, he simulated a dog of marble; and if it had not been for the occasional bumping of his tail upon the Persian carpet, in an irresistible wag of self-approbation, the simulation would have been perfect. "Look, papa! isn't it beautiful? I went out of the room the other day, while Nip was doing the statue, after I'd told him not to move a paw, and I stayed away quite five minutes, and then stole quietly back; and there he was, lying as still as if he'd been carved out of stone. Wasn't that fidelity?" "Nonsense!" cried the Squire. "How do you know that Nip didn't wind you as you opened the door, and get himself into position? What are these?" as the old silver _entree_ dishes came round. "Stewed eels? You never forget my tastes, Pamela." "Stewed eels, sir; _sole maitre d'hotel_," said the butler, in the usual suppressed and deferential tone. Rorie helped himself automatically, and went on looking at Vixen. Her praises of Nip had kindled jealous fires in the breast of Argus, her own particular favourite; and the blunt black muzzle had been thrust vehemently under her velvet sleeve. "Argus is angry." said Rorie. "He's a dear old foolish thing to be jealous," answered Vixen, "when he knows I'd go through fire and water for him." "Or even fight a big boy," cried the Squire, throwing himself back in his chair with the unctuous laughter of a man who is dining well, and knows it. Vixen blushed rosiest red at the allusion. "Papa, you oughtn't to say such things," she cried; "I was a little bit of a child then." "Yes, and flew at a great boy of fourteen and licked him," exclaimed the Squire, rapturously. "You know the story, don't you, Rorie?" Rorie had heard it twenty times, but looked the picture of ignorant expectancy.