“Plato, my beauty!” she exclaimed; “How do you like Abbot’s Manor, boy?  Eh?  Quite at home, aren’t you!  Good dog!  Isn’t he a king of dogs?” And she turned her smiling face on Mrs. Spruce.  “A real king!  I bought him because he was so big!  Weren’t you frightened when you saw such a monster?—­and didn’t you think he would bite everybody on the least provocation?  But he wouldn’t, you know!  He’s a perfect darling—­as gentle as a lamb!  He would kill anyone that wanted to hurt me—­oh, yes of course!—­that’s why I love him!”

And she patted the enormous creature’s broad head tenderly.

“He’s my only true friend!” she continued; “Money wouldn’t buy his fidelity!” Here, glancing at Mrs. Spruce, she laughed merrily.  “Dear Mrs. Spruce!  You do look so uncomfortable!—­so—­so warm!  It is warm, isn’t it?  Make me some tea!—­tea cools one, they say, though it’s hot to drink at first.  We’ll talk afterwards!”

Mrs. Spruce, with inaudible murmurings, hastened to the tea-tray, and tried to compose her agitated nerves by bringing her attention to bear on the silver tea-kettle which Primmins had just brought in, and in which the water was beginning to bubble, in obedience to the newly-kindled flame of the spirit-lamp beneath.

Maryllia, meanwhile, stepped out on the grass terrace in front of the window, with the dog Plato at her side, and looked long and earnestly at the fair stretch of woodland scenery before her.  While she thus stood absorbed, Mrs. Spruce stole covert glances at her with increased wonder and bewilderment.  She looked much younger than her twenty-seven years,—­her childlike figure and face portrayed her as about eighteen, not more.  She stood rather under than over the medium height of woman,—­yet she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was, owing to the graceful curve of her arched neck, which rose from her shoulders with a daintily-proud poise, marking her demeanour as exceptional and altogether different to that of ordinary women.  Her back being turned to Mrs. Spruce for the moment, that sagacious dame decided that she was ’real stately, for all that she was small,’ and also noted that her hair, coiled loosely in a thick knot, which pushed itself with rebellious fulness beyond the close-fitting edge of the dark straw hat she wore, was of a warm auburn gold, rippling here and there into shades of darker brown.  Suddenly, with a decided movement, she turned from the terrace and re-entered the morning-room.

“Tea ready?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am!—­yes, miss—­my lady—­it’s just made—­perhaps it’s best to let it draw a bit—­”

“I don’t like it strong!” said Maryllia, sitting down, and leisurely taking off her hat; “And you mustn’t call me ‘my lady.’  I’m not the daughter of an earl, or the wife of a knight.  If I were Scotch, I might say ‘I’m Mclntosh of Mclntosh’; or some other Mac of Mac,—­but being English, I’m Vancourt of Vancourt!  And you must call me ‘Miss,’ till I become ‘Ma’am.’  I don’t want to bear any unnecessary dignities before my time!  In fact, I think you’d better call me Miss Maryllia, as you used to do when my father was alive.”