into an exquisite transparent lilac, there hung a full moon—a moon of the lightest and clearest gold, with its mysterious continents appearing as faint gray films. The prevailing peace seemed to grow more profound with the coming of the night. But this was not a night to be feared—this was a night to be welcomed—a night with that fair golden moon hanging high in the heavens, the mistress and guardian of the silent vale.
When Lionel rode up to the door of the lodge, he found all the gentlemen of the house congregated there and dressed for dinner. Sir Hugh held up his hand.
"No, not one word!" he cried. "Not necessary. I can always tell. It is written in every line of your face."
"It isn't a hind, is it?" inquired Lord Rockminster, doubtfully.
"A hind of ten points!" Lionel said, with a laugh, as he pushed his way through. "Well, I must see if I can have a hot bath to soften my bones."
"My good fellow, it's waiting for you," his host said. "I told Jeffreys the moment I saw you coming down the strath. We'll put back dinner a bit; but be as quick as you can."
At the same moment there appeared a white-draped figure on the landing above, leaning over the balustrade.
"What have you done, Mr. Moore?" called down the well-known voice of Honnor Cunyngham.
"I've got a stag," he said, looking up with a good deal of satisfaction—or gratitude, perhaps?—in his eyes.
"How many points?"