“Who is George Ranger?” said Sheila with an air, as if she had said, “Do you know that I am the daughter of the King of Borva, and whoever touches me will have to answer to my papa, who is not afraid of any George Ranger?”

“He is a great lord who hangs all persons who disturb the deer in this Park.”

“But why do they not go away?” said Sheila impatiently.  “I have never seen any deer so stupid.  It is their own fault if they are disturbed:  why do they remain so near to people and to houses?”

“My dear child, if Bras wasn’t here you would probably find some of those deer coming up to see if you had any bits of sugar or pieces of bread about your pockets.”

“Then they are like sheep—­they are not like deer,” she said with some contempt.  “If I could only tell Bras that it is sheep he will be looking at, he would not look any more.  And so small they are!  They are as small as the roe, but they have horns as big as many of the red-deer.  Do people eat them?”

“I suppose so.”

“And what will they cost?”

“I am sure I can’t tell you.”

“Are they as good as the roe or the big deer?”

“I don’t know that, either.  I don’t think I ever ate fallow-deer.  But you know they are not kept here for that purpose.  A great many gentlemen in this country keep a lot of them in their parks merely to look pretty.  They cost a great deal more than they produce.”

“They must eat up a great deal of fine grass,” said Sheila almost sorrowfully.  “It is a beautiful ground for sheep—­no rushes, no peat-moss, only fine, good grass and dry land.  I should like my papa to see all this beautiful ground.”

“I fancy he has seen it.”

“Was my papa here?”

“I think he said so.”

“And did he see those deer?”

“Doubtless.”

“He never told me of them.”

By this time they had pretty nearly got down to the little lake, and Bras had been alternately coaxed and threatened into a quiescent mood.  Sheila evidently expected to hear a flapping of seafowls’ wings when they got near the margin, and looked all around for the first sudden dart from the banks.  But a dead silence prevailed, and as there were neither fish nor birds to watch, she went along to a wooden bench and sat down there, one of her companions on each hand.  It was a pretty scene that lay before her—­the small stretch of water ruffled with the wind, but showing a dash of blue sky here and there, the trees in the enclosure beyond clad in their summer foliage, the smooth green sward shining in the afternoon sunlight.  Here, at least, was absolute quiet after the roar of London; and it was somewhat wistfully that she asked her husband how far this place was from her home, and whether, when he was at work, she could not come down here by herself.

“Certainly,” he said, never dreaming that she would think of doing such a thing.