’I am afraid supper’s more than ready somewhere else.  I can’t stay, my friend—­my thanks to the lady.’  And letting fall on the little dark figure who stood at his stirrup, a gold piece and a smile, Rollo passed him, bent a moment to speak to Mr. Falkirk, and brought the grey cob’s ideas to a head by stepping him off at a good pace.

The room was large, opening by glass doors upon a wilderness of grass, trees and flowers.  At every corner glass cupboards showed a stock of rare old china; a long sideboard was brilliant and splendid with old silver.  Dark cabinet ware furnished but not encumbered the room; in the centre a table looked all of hospitality and welcome that a table can.  There was a great store of old fashioned elegance and comfort in Wych Hazel’s home; no doubt of it; of old-fashioned state too, and old-time respectability; to which numberless old-time witnesses stood testifying on every hand, from the teapot, the fashion of which was a hundred years ancient, to the uncouth brass andirons in the fireplace.  Mr. Falkirk came in as one to whom it was all very wonted and well known.  The candles were not lit; a soft, ruddy light from the west reddened the great mirror over the fireplace and gave back the silver sideboard in it.  Not till the clear notes of a bugle, the Chickaree tea-bell, had wound about the old house awakening sweet echoes, did Wych Hazel make her appearance.

‘Supper mos’ as good hot as de weather,’ remarked Dingee.  ’Mas Rollo, he say he break his heart dat his profess’nal duties tears him ‘way.’

‘Dingee, go down stairs,’ said Miss Hazel turning upon him,—­ ’and when you tell stories about Mr. Rollo tell them to himself, and not to me.  Will you come to tea, sir?’

CHAPTER XI.

VIXEN.

The birds were taken by surprise next morning.  Long before Mr. Falkirk was up, before the house was fairly astir with servants, there was a new voice in their concert; one almost as busy and musical as their own.  Reo Hartshorne—­the sturdy gardener and lodge-keeper—­thought so, listening with wonder to hear what a change it made.  Wych Hazel had found him out planting flowers for her, and with his hand taken in both hers had finished the half-begun recognition of last night.  Now she stood watching him as he plied his spade, refreshing his labour with a very streamlet of talk, flitting round him and plucking flowers like a humming-bird supplied with fingers.  The servants passing to and fro about their work smiled to each other; Mrs. Bywank came by turns to the door to catch a look or a word; Reo himself lifted his brown hand and made believe it was to brush away the perspiration.  Another observer who had come upon the scene, observed it very passively—­a girl, a small girl, in the dress of the poor, and with the dull eyes of observance which often mark the children of the poor.  They expressed nothing, but that they looked.