Then all at once a laugh rings out; there is an undeniable scuffle, and presently a tiny black dog with a little mirthful yelp breaks from the house into the garden and commences a mad scamper all round and round the rose trees.
An instant later he is followed by a trim maid-servant, who, flushed but smiling, rushes after him, making well-directed but ineffectual pounces on the truant. As she misses him the dog gives way to another yelp (of triumph this time), and again the hunt goes on.
But now there comes the sound of other feet, and Cyril, glancing up from his interested watch over the terrier's movements, sees surely something far, far lovelier than he has ever seen before.
Even at this early moment his heart gives a little bound and then seems to cease from beating.
Upon the door-step stands a girl—although quite three-and-twenty she still looks the merest girl—clad in a gown of clear black-and-white cambric. A huge coarse white apron covers all the front of this gown, and is pinned, French fashion, half-way across her bosom. Her arms, white and soft, and rounded as a child's, are bared to the elbows, her sleeves being carefully tucked up. Two little feet, encased in Louis Quinze slippers, peep coyly from beneath her robe.
Upon this vision Cyril gazes, his whole heart in his eyes, and marks with wondering admiration each fresh beauty. She is tall, rather posée in figure, with a small, proud head, and the carriage of a goddess. Her features are not altogether perfect, and yet (or rather because of it) she is extremely beautiful. She has great, soft, trusting eyes of a deep rare gray, that looking compel the truth; above her low white forehead her hair rolls back in silky ruffled waves, and is gathered into a loose knot behind. It is a rich nut-brown in color, through which runs a faint tinge of red that turns to burnished gold under the sun's kiss. Her skin is exquisite, pale but warm, through which as she speaks the blood comes and lingers awhile, and flies only to return. Her mouth is perhaps, strictly speaking, in a degree imperfect, yet it is one of her principal charms; it is large and lovable, and covers pretty teeth as white as snow. For my part I love a large mouth, if well shaped, and do not believe a hearty laugh can issue from a small one. And, after all, what is life without its laughter?
A little white cap of the "mob" description adorns her head, and is trimmed fancifully with black velvet bows that match her gown. Her hands are small and fine, the fingers tapering; just now they are clasped together excitedly; and a brilliant color has come into her cheeks as she stands (unconscious of criticism) and watches the depravity of her favorite.
"Oh! catch him, Kate," she cries, in a clear, sweet voice, that is now rather impetuous and suggests rising indignation. "Wicked little wretch! He shall have a good whipping for this. Dirty little dog,"—(this to the black terrier, in a tone of reproachful disgust)—"not to want his nice clean bath after all the dust of yesterday and to-day!"
This rebuke is evidently lost upon the reprobate terrier, who still flies before the enemy who follows on his heels in hot pursuit. Round and round, in and out, hither and thither he goes, the breathless maid after him, the ceaseless upbraiding of his mistress ringing in his ears. The nice clean bath has no charms for this degenerate dog, although his ablutions are to be made sweet by the touch of those snowy dimpled hands now clasped in an agony of expectation. No, this miserable animal, disdaining all the good things in store for him, rushes past Kate, past his angry mistress, past the roses, out through the bars of the gate right into Cyril's arms! Oh, ill-judging dog!
Cyril, having caught him, holds him closely, in spite of his vehement struggles, for, scenting mischief in the air, he fights valiantly for freedom.