"I haven't the least idea. That is no business of mine, you know." "I don't know anything of the kind," retorted Rorie captiously. "I should have thought it was very much your business." "Should you, really?" said Vixen mockingly. If the gentleman's temper was execrable, the lady's mood was not too amiable. "Yes. Are not you the load-star? It is your presence that makes the Abbey House pleasant to him. Who can wonder that he protracts his stay?" "He has been with us a little more than a fortnight." "He has been with you an age. Mortals who are taken up to Paradise seldom stay so long. Sweet dreams are not so long. A fortnight in the same house with you, meeting with you at breakfast, parting with you at midnight, seeing you at noontide and afternoon, walking with you, riding with you, singing with you, kneeling down to family prayer at your side, mixing his 'Amen' with yours; why he might as well be your husband at once. He has as much delight in your society." "You forget the hours in which he is shooting pheasants and playing billiards." "Glimpses of purgatory, which make his heaven all the more divine," said Rorie. "Well, it is none of my business, as you said just now. There are people born to be happy, I suppose; creatures that come into the world under a lucky star." "Undoubtedly, and among them notably Mr. Vawdrey, who has everything that the heart of a reasonable man can desire." "So had Solomon, and yet he made his moan." "Oh, there is always a crumpled rose-leaf in everybody's bed. And if the rose-leaves were all smooth, a man would crumple one on purpose, in order to have something to grumble about. Hark, Rorie!" cried Vixen, with a sudden change of tone, as the first silvery chime of Ringwood bells came floating over the woodland distance--the low moon-lit hills; "don't be cross. The old year is dying. Remember the dear days that are gone, when you and I used to think a new year a thing to be glad about. And now, what can the new years bring us half so good as that which the old ones have taken away?" She had slipped her little gloved hand through his arm, and drawn very near to him, moved by tender thoughts of the past. He looked down at her with eyes from which all anger had vanished. There was only love in them--deep love; love such as a very affectionate brother might perchance give his only sister--but it must be owned that brothers capable of such love are rare. "No, child," he murmured sadly. "Years to come can bring us nothing so good or so dear as the past. Every new year will drift us farther."