"Something that loves you!" cried a voice from the door of the yard. "Does not everything noble or worthy love you, as it loves all that is beautiful?"
Turning quickly, with a scared look, Violet saw Roderick Vawdrey standing in the doorway.
He stood quietly watching her, his dark eyes softened with a look of tender admiration. There could hardly have been a prettier picture than the tall girlish figure and bright chestnut head, the fair face bending over the upturned noses of the hounds as they clustered round her, some standing up with their strong white paws upon her shoulder, some nestling at her knees. Her hat had fallen off, and was being trampled under a multitude of restless feet.
Rorie came into the little yard. The huntsman cracked his whip, and the hounds went tumbling one over the other into their house, where they leaped upon their straw bed, and grouped themselves as if they had been sitting for their portraits to Sir Edwin Landseer. Two inquisitive fellows stood up with their paws upon the ledge of the barred window, and looked out at Violet and the new master.
"I did not know you were at Briarwood," she said, as they shook hands.
"I only came home last night. My first visit was naturally here. I wanted to see if everything was in good order."
"When do you begin to hunt?"
"On the first of October. You are going to be amongst us this year, of course."
"No. I have never followed the hounds since papa's death. I don't suppose I ever shall again."
"What, not with your stepfather?"