One fleeting, backward glance of the bewitching face, a saucy smile and a wave of the hand, and Whirlwind had leaped across the brook and ambled on beside the sober charger of Lady Louise.

“Every one has been talking of your riding, Miss Hunsden,” Lady Louise said.  “I am nearly beside myself with envy.  Lord Ernest Strathmore says you are the most graceful equestrienne he ever saw.”

“His lordship is very good.  I wish I could return the compliment, but his chestnut balked shamefully, and came home dead beat!”

Lord Ernest was within hearing distance of the clear, girlish voice, but he only laughed good-naturedly.

“As you are strong, be merciful, Miss Hunsden.  We can’t all perform miracles on horseback, you know.  I came an awful cropper at that ugly hedge, to be sure, and your red horse went over me like a blaze of lightning!  You owe me some atonement, and—­of course you are going to the ball to-night?”

“Of course!  I like balls even better than hunting.”

“And she dances better than she rides,” put in her father, coming up.

“She is perfection in everything she undertakes, I am certain,” Lord Ernest said, “and for that atonement I speak of, Miss Hunsden, I claim the first waltz.”

They rode together to Carteret Park.  Sir Everard had the privilege of assisting her to dismount.

“You must be fatigued, Miss Hunsden,” he said.  “With a ball in prospective, after your hard gallop, I should recommend a long rest.”

“Sir Everard, I don’t know the meaning of that word ‘fatigue.’  I never was tired in my life, and I am ready for the ball to-night, and a steeple-chase to-morrow.”

She tripped off as she spoke, with a mischievous glance.  She wanted to shock him, and she succeeded.

“Poor girl!” he thought, as he slowly turned homeward, “she is really dreadful.  She never had a mother, I suppose, and wandering over the world with her father has made her a perfect savage.  She is truly to be pitied—­so exceedingly beautiful as she is, too!”

Sir Everard certainly was very sorry for that hoidenish Miss Hunsden.  He thought of her while dressing for dinner, and he talked of her all through that meal “more in sorrow than in anger.”

Sybilla Silver, quite like one of the family already, listened with greedy ears and eager black eyes.

“You ought to call, mother,” the baronet said, “you and Mildred.  Common politeness requires it, Captain Hunsden was my father’s most intimate friend, and this wild girl stands sadly in need of some matronly adviser.”

“I remember Captain Hunsden,” Lady Kingsland said, thoughtfully, “and I remember this girl, too, when she was a child of three or four years.  He was a very handsome man, I recollect, and he married away in Canada or the United States.  There was some mystery about that marriage—­something vague and unpleasant—­no one knew what.  She ought to be pretty, this daughter.”