After all, the fates sent us a chaperon.  A letter came addressed to my mother, and proved to be from the clergyman of a village in the remotest corner of Devonshire, where a cousin of my father had once been vicar.  His widow, the daughter of his predecessor, had lived on there, but, owing to the misdoings of her son and the failure of a bank, she was in much distress.  All intercourse with the family had dropped since my father’s death, but the present vicar, casting about for means of helping her, had elicited that the Arghouse family were the only relations she knew of, and had written to ask assistance for her.

“I will go and see about her,” said Harold.  So he shouldered his bag, walked into Mycening, and started in the tender, the only place where he could endure railway travelling.  Four days later came this note: 

“Thursday.

“My Dear Lucy, ­Send the carriage to meet Mrs. Alison at 4.40 on Saturday.  Your affectionate

“H.  A.”

I handed the note to Eustace in amazement, but I perceived that he, like his cousin, thought it quite simple that the home of the head of the family should be a refuge for all its waifs and strays, and as I was one myself, I felt rebuked.

I went to Mycening in the carriage, and beheld Harold emerge from a first-class, extracting therefrom one basket after another, two bird-cages, a bundle, an umbrella, a parcel, a cloak, and, finally, a little panting apple-cheeked old lady.  “Here’s Lucy! that’s right.”  And as both his hands were full, he honoured me with a hasty kiss on the forehead.  “She’ll take care of you, while I get the rest of it.”

“But, oh! ­my dear man ­my pussy ­and ­and your wadded cloak ­and, oh ­my sable muff ­your poor papa’s present, I would not lose it for a thousand pounds!”

I found the muff, which could not easily be overlooked, for it was as big as a portmanteau, and stuffed full of sundries.  “Oh dear yes, my dear, thank you, so it is; but the cat ­my poor pussy.  No, my dear, that’s the bantams ­very choice.  My poor little Henry had them given to him when he was six years old ­the old ones I mean ­and I’ve never parted with them.  ‘Take them all,’ he said ­so good; but, oh dear.  Tit!  Tit!  Tittie!  He was playing with her just now.  Has anyone seen a tabby cat?  Bless me, there it goes!  So dreadful!  It takes one’s breath away, and all my things.  Oh! where is he?”

“All right,” said Harold.  “There are your boxes, and here’s your cat,” showing a striped head under his coat.  “Now say what you want to-night, and I’ll send for the rest.”

She looked wildly about, uttering an incoherent inventory, which Harold cut short by handing over articles to the porter according to his own judgment, and sweeping her into the carriage, returning as I was picking up the odds and ends that had been shed on the way.  “You have had a considerable charge,” said I, between amusement and dismay.

“Poor old thing, comfort her!  She never saw a train before, and is regularly overset.”

He put me into the carriage, emptied his pockets of the cat and other trifles, and vanished in the twilight, the old lady gaspingly calling after him, and I soothing her by explaining that he always liked walking home to stretch his legs, while she hoped I was sure, and that it was not want of room.  Truly a man of his size could not well have been squeezed in with her paraphernalia, but I did my best to console the old lady for the absence of her protector, and I began at last to learn, as best I could from her bewildered and entangled speech, how he had arrived, taken the whole management of her affairs, and insisted on carrying her off; but her gratitude was strangely confused with her new railway experiences and her anxieties about her parcels.  I felt as if I had drifted a little bit farther from old times, when we held our heads rather fastidiously high above “odd people.”

But old Mrs. Samuel Alison was a lady, as even Lady Diana allowed; but of a kind nearly extinct.  She had only visited London and Bath once, on her wedding tour, in the days of stage-coaches; there was provincialism in her speech, and the little she had ever been taught she had forgotten, and she was the most puzzle-headed woman I ever encountered.  I do not think she ever realised that it was at Harold’s own expense that her rent and other little accounts had been paid up, nor that Eustace was maintaining her.  She thought herself only on a long visit, and trusted the assurances that Harold was settling everything for ever.  The L30 income which remained to her out of one of L200 served for her pocket-money, and all else was provided for her, without her precisely understanding how; nor did she seem equal to the complications of her new home.  She knew our history in a certain sort of way, but she spoke of one of us to the other as “your brother,” or “your sister,” and the late Mr. Sam always figured as “your poor papa.”  We tried at first to correct her, but never got her farther than “your poor uncle,” and at last we all acquiesced except Eustace, who tried explanations with greater perseverance than effect.  Her excuse always was that Harold was so exactly like her poor dear little Henry, except for his beard, that she could almost think she was speaking to him!  She was somewhat deaf, and did not like to avow it, which accounted for some of her blunders.  One thing she could never understand, namely, why Harold and Eustace had never met her “poor little Henry” in Australia, which she always seemed to think about as big as the Isle of Wight.  He had been last heard of at Melbourne; and we might tell her a hundred times that she might as well wonder we had not met a man at Edinburgh; she always recurred to “I do so wish you had seen my poor dear little Henry!” till Harold arrived at a promise to seek out the said Henry, who, by all appearances, was an unmitigated scamp, whenever he should return to Australia.

On the whole, her presence was very good for us, if only by infusing the element of age.  She liked to potter about in the morning, attending to her birds and bantams, and talking to the gardening men, weeding women, and all the people in the adjacent hamlet; and, afterwards, the fireside, with her knitting and a newspaper, sufficed her.  Not the daily papers ­they were far too much for her; but the weekly paper from her own town, which lasted her till a new one came, as she spelled it through, and communicated the facts and facetiae as she thought them suited to our capacity.  She was a better walker than I, and would seldom come out in the carriage, for she always caught cold when she did so.  A long nap after dinner ended in her resuming her knitting quite contentedly in silence.  She wanted no more, though she was pleased if any one said a few kindly words to her.  Nothing could be more inoffensive, and she gave us a centre and something needing consideration.  I feared Dora might be saucy to her, but perhaps motherliness was what the wild child needed, for she drew towards her, and was softened, and even submitted to learn to knit, for the sake of the mighty labour of making a pair of socks for Harold.

The respectability her presence gave in our pew, and by our hearth, was a great comfort to our friends of all degrees.  She was a very pretty old lady, with dark eyes, cheeks still rosy, lovely loose waves of short snowy curls, and a neat, active little figure, which looked well in the good black silks in which I contrived to invest her.

Good old woman, she thought us all shockingly full of worldliness, little guessing how much gaiety was due to her meek presence among us.  We even gave dinner-parties in state, and what Richardson and I underwent from Eustace in preparation, no tongue can tell, nor Eustace’s complacence in handing down Lady Diana!

The embargo on intercourse with Arked House was over before Viola was taken to London to be introduced.  Eustace wanted much to follow them, be at the levee, and spend the season in town.  Had he not been presented at Government House, and was it not due to the Queen?  Dora more practically offered to follow the example of the Siberian exile, and lay a petition for Prometesky’s release at her Majesty’s feet, but Harold uttered his ponderous “No” alike to both, proving, in his capacity as agent, that Eustace had nothing like the amount this year which could enable him to spend two or three months even as a single man in London society.  The requisite amount, which he had ascertained, was startling, even had Eustace been likely to be frugal; nor could this year’s income justify it, in spite of Boola Boola.  The expense of coming into the estate, together with all the repairs and improvements, had been such that the Australian property had been needed to supplement the new.  Eustace was very angry and disappointed, and grumbled vehemently.  It was all Harry’s fault for making him spend hundreds on his own maggots, that nobody wanted and nobody cared about, and would be the ruin of him.  Poor Bullock would have raised the sum fast enough, and thought nothing of it.

Harry never said how much of his own funds from Boola Boola had supplemented Eustace’s outlay; he did not even say how much better it was to be a good landlord than a man about town; all he did was to growl forth to his spoilt child, “There’ll be more forthcoming next year.”

Eustace protested that he did not believe it, and Harold replied, “No legacy duty ­no stock to purchase ­Hydriots’ dividend ­”

It did not check the murmur, and Eustace sulked all the rest of the day; indeed, this has always seemed to me to have been the first little rift in his adherence to his cousin, but at that time his dependence was so absolute, and his power of separate action so small, that he submitted to the decree even while he grumbled; and when he found that Lord Erymanth viewed it as very undesirable for a young man to come up to London without either home or business, or political views, took to himself great credit for the wise decision.

Indeed, Lord Erymanth did invite us all for a fortnight to his great old mansion in Piccadilly to see the Exhibition, and, as he solemnly told me, “to observe enough of our institutions as may prepare my young friends for future life.”  Even Dora was asked, by special entreaty from Viola, who undertook to look after her ­rather too boldly, considering that Di ­i.e.  Mrs. Enderby ­was mistress of Viola’s movements, and did not leave her much time to waste upon us.

In fact, Mrs. Enderby, though perfectly civil, was evidently hostile to us, and tried to keep her sister out of our way as much as she could, thickening engagements upon her, at which Viola made all the comical murmurs her Irish blood could prompt, but of course in vain.  Eustace’s great ambition was to follow her to her parties, and Lady Diana favoured him when she could; but Harold would have nothing to do with such penances.  He never missed a chance of seeing Viola come down attired for them, but, as he once said, “that was enough for him.”  He did not want to see her handed about and grimaced at by a lot of fine gentlemen who did not seem to think anything worth the trouble; and as to the crowd and the stifling, they made him feel ready to strike out and knock everyone down.

So much Eustace and I elicited in short sentences one day, when we were rather foolishly urging on him to let himself be taken with us to an evening party.  No, he went his own way and took Dora with him, and I was quite sure that they were safe together, and that after his year’s experience he was to be trusted to know where it was fitting to take her.  They saw a good deal that was more entertaining than we could venture on; and, moreover, Harold improved his mind considerably in the matters of pottery, porcelain, and model lodging-houses.

Dermot was in London too, not staying with uncle or sister, for both of whom he was much too erratic, though he generally presented himself at such times as were fittest for ascertaining our movements for the day, when it generally ended in his attaching himself to some of us, for Harold seemed to have passed an act of oblivion on the doings of that last unhappy meeting, and allowed himself to be taken once or twice with Eustace into Dermot’s own world; but not only was he on his guard there, but he could not be roused to interest even where horseflesh was concerned.  Some one said he was too great a barbarian, and so he was.  His sports and revelries had been on a wilder, ruder, more violent scale, such as made these seem tame.  He did not understand mere trifling for amusement’s sake, still less how money could be thrown away for it and for fashion, when it was so cruelly wanted by real needs; and even Dermot was made uncomfortable by his thorough earnestness.  “It won’t do in ‘the village’ in the nineteenth century,” said he to me.  “It is like ­who was that old fellow it was said of ­a lion stalking about in a sheepfold.”

“Sheep!” said I, indignantly.  “I am afraid some are wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

Dermot shrugged his shoulders and said, “How is one to help oneself if one has been born some two thousand years too late, or not in the new half-baked hemisphere where demigods still walk the earth in their simplicity?”

“I want you not to spoil the demigod when he has walked in among you.”

“I envy him too much to do that,” said Dermot with a sigh.

“I believe you, Dermot, but don’t take him among those who want to do so.”

“That’s your faith in your demigod,” said Dermot, not able to resist a little teasing; but seeing I was really pained, he added:  “No, Lucy, I’ll never take him again to meet Malvoisin and Nessy Horsman.  In the first place, I don’t know how he might treat them; and in the next, I would die sooner than give them another chance, even if he would.  I thought the men would have been struck with him as I was; but no, it is not in them to be struck with anyone.  All they think of is how to make him like themselves.”

“Comus’ crew!” said I.  “Oh!  Dermot, how can you see it and be one of them?”

“I’m not happy enough to be an outer barbarian,” he said, and went his way.

There was a loan exhibition of curious old objects in plate and jewellery, to which Lady Diana took me, and where, among other things, we found a long belt crusted thickly with scales of gold, and with a sort of medal at the clasp.

“Just look here, mamma,” said Viola; “I do believe this is the archery prize.”

And sure enough on the ticket was, “Belt, supposed to be of Peruvian workmanship.  Taken in the Spanish Armada, 1588.  Champion belt at the Northchester Archery Club.  Lent by Miss Hippolyta Horsman.”

Lady Diana came to look with some interest.  She had never had an opportunity of examining it closely before, and she now said, “I am much inclined to believe that this is the belt that used to be an heirloom in the Jerfield family, and which ought to be in yours, Lucy.”

My father’s first wife had been the last of the Jerfields, and I asked eager questions.  Lady Diana believed that “those unhappy young men” had made away with all their mother’s jewels, but she could tell no more, as our catastrophe had taken place while she was living at Killy Marey.  Her brother, she said, could tell us more; and so he did, enough to set Eustace on fire.

Yes, the belt had been well known.  It was not taken in the Armada, but in a galleon of the Peruvian plunder by an old Jerfield, who had been one of the race of Westward Ho! heroes.  The Jerfields had not been prosperous, and curious family jewels had been nearly all the portion of the lady who had married my father.  The sons had claimed them, and they were divided between them, and given to the two wives; and in the time of distress, when far too proud to accept aid from the father, as well as rather pleased at mortifying him by disposing of his family treasures, Alice and Dorothy Alison had gradually sold them off.  And, once in the hands of local jewellers, it was easy for the belt to pass into becoming the prize held by the winner in the Archery Club every year.  Lord Erymanth would go with Eustace the next morning to identify it; but what would be the use of that?  Eustace at first fancied he could claim it, but soon he saw that his proposal was viewed as so foolish that he devoured it, and talked of giving an equivalent; but, as Lord Erymanth observed, it would be very difficult to arrange this with an article of family and antiquarian value, in the hands of an archery club ­an impersonal body.

“The thing would be to win it,” said Viola.  “Could not some of us?”

“Well done, little Miss Tell,” returned Dermot.  “Hippo has won that same belt these four years, to my certain knowledge, except once, when Laurie Stympson scored two more.”

“I’ll practise every day; won’t you, Lucy?  And then, between us, there will be two chances.”

“I am sure I am very much nattered by Miss Tracy’s kindness,” put in Eustace; “but is the match solely between ladies?”

No, for the last two years, after a match between ladies and between gentlemen, there had a final one taken place between the two winners, male and female, in which Hippo had hitherto always carried off the glory and the belt.  So Eustace intimated his full intention of trying for himself, endeavouring to be very polite to Viola and me, but implying that he thought himself a far surer card, boasting of his feats as a marksman in the Bush, until Dora broke in, “Why, Eustace, that was Harry; wasn’t it, Harry?”

“Comme a l’ordinaire,” muttered Dermot.  Eustace made a little stammering about the thing being so near that no one could tell, and Dora referred again to Harold, who put her down with a muttered “Never mind” under his beard.

What was to be done with it if it were won?  “Get a fac-simile made, and an appropriate inscription,” recommended Lord Erymanth.  “Probably they would take that willingly.”

“But what would you do with it?” asked Harold.  “You can’t wear it.”

“I tell you it is an heirloom,” quoth Eustace.  “Have you no feeling for an heirloom?  I am sure it was your mother who sold it away from me.”

The sight of the belt, with Lord Erymanth’s lecture on it, inflamed Eustace’s ardour all the more, and we made extensive purchases of bows and arrows; that is to say, Eustace and I did, for Lady Diana would not permit Viola to join in the contest.  She did not like the archery set, disapproved of public matches for young ladies, and did not choose her daughter to come forward in the cause.  I did not fancy the matches either, and was certain that my mere home pastime had no chance with Hippo and Pippa, who had studied archery scientifically for years, and aimed at being the best lady shots in England; but Eustace would never have forgiven me if I had not done my best.  So we subscribed to the Archery Club as soon as we went home; and Eustace would have had me practise with him morning, noon, and night, till I rebelled, and declared that if he knocked me up my prowess would be in vain, and that I neither could nor would shoot more than an hour and a half a day.

His ardour, however, soon turned into vitupérations of the stupid sport.  How could mortal man endure it?  If it had been pistol or rifle-shooting now, it would have been tolerable, and he should have been sure to excel; but a great long, senseless, useless thing like an arrow was only fit for women or black fellows; the string hurt one’s fingers too ­always slipping off the tabs.

“No wonder, as you hold it,” said Harold, who had just turned aside to watch on his way down to the potteries, and came in time to see an arrow fly into the bank a yard from the target.  “Don’t you see how Lucy takes it?”

I had already tried to show him, but he had pronounced mine to be the ladies’ way, and preferred to act by the light of nature.  Harry looked, asked a question or two, took the bow in his own hands, and with “This way, Eustace; don’t you see?” had an arrow in the outer white.

“Yes,” said Eustace, “of course, stupid thing, anybody can do it without any trouble.”

“It is pretty work,” said Harry, taking up the third arrow, and sending it into the inner white.

“Much too easy for men,” was Eustace’s opinion, and he continued to despise it until, being capable of perseverance of a certain kind, and being tutored by Harold, he began to succeed in occasionally piercing the target, upon which his mind changed, and he was continually singing the praises of archery in the tone (whispered Viola) of the sparrow who killed Cock Robin with his bow and arrow!

We used to practise for an hour every afternoon, and the fascination of the sport gained upon Harold so much that he sent for a bow and arrows, and shot with us whenever he was not too busy, as, between the agency and the potteries, he often was.  He did not join the club, nor come to the weekly meetings at Northchester with Eustace and me, until, after having seen a little of the shooting there, I privately hinted to him that there was not the smallest chance of the champion belt changing hands unless he took up the family cause.  Whereupon, rather than that Eustace should be disappointed, he did ask to be admitted, and came once with us to the meeting, when, to tell the truth, he did not shoot as well as usual, for ­as afterwards appeared ­in riding into Northchester he had stopped to help to lift up a great tree that was insecure on its timber waggon, and even his hands shook a little from the exertion.  Besides, Eustace had discovered that Harold’s new bow shot better than his, and had insisted on changing, and Harold had not so proved the powers of Eustace’s as to cure it of its inferiority.

Eustace really came to shooting so tolerably as to make him look on the sport with complacency, and like the people he met there.  All this hardly seems worth telling, but events we little thought of sprang from those archery practices.  For the present we found them a great means of getting acquainted with the neighbours.  I bowed now to many more people than ever I had done before, and we had come into great favour since the Hydriots had astonished the county by announcing a dividend.  It was only three per cent., but that was an immense advance upon nothing, and the promise of the future was great; the shares had gone up nearly to their original value in the most sanguine days; and the workmen ­between prosperity, good management, the lecture-room at the “Dragon’s Head,” and the work among them done by the clerical, as well as the secular, Yolland ­were, not models by any means, but far from the disorderly set they had been.  They did take some pride in decent houses and well-dressed children, and Harold’s plans for the improvement of their condition were accepted as they never would have been from one whose kindly sympathy and strength of will did not take them, as it were, captive.  “Among those workmen you feel that he is a born king of men,” said Ben Yolland.

And as Bullock had been bailiff as well as agent, Harry had all the home-farming matters on his hands, and attended to them like any farmer, so that it was no wonder that he gave little time to the meetings for archery practice, which involved the five miles expedition, and even to our own domestic practice, answering carelessly, when Eustace scolded him about letting a chance go by, and his heedlessness of the honour of the family, “Oh, I take a shot or two every morning as I go out, to keep my hand in.”

“You’ll get your arrows spoilt in the dew,” said Eustace.

“They don’t go into the dew,” said Harold.  And as he was always out with the lark, even Dora seldom saw this practice; but there were always new holes very near the centre of the target, which Eustace said proved how true was his own aim.

Harvest came, and in the middle of it the great archery match of the year, which was held in the beautiful grounds of Mr. Vernon, the member for Northchester, a little way from the town.

“I suppose Harry may as well go,” said Eustace; “but he has not practised at all, so it will be of little avail.  Now if I had not grazed my hand, I should have scored quite as much as Miss Horsman last week.  It all lies in caring about it.”

And severe was his lecture to Harold against foolishly walking in and making his hand unsteady.  Yet, after all, when the carriage came to the door, Harold was not to be found, though his bow and arrows were laid ready with ours to be taken.  He endured no other apparatus.  The inside of his fingers was like leather, and he declared that tabs and guard only hampered him.  Lady Diana had yielded to her daughter’s entreaties, and brought her to see the contest, though only as a spectator.  As I stood shy and far from sanguine among the lady archers, I felt out of my natural place, and glad she was under her mother’s wing, she looked so fair and innocent in her delicate blue and white, and was free for such sweet ardour in our cause, all the prettier and more arch because its demonstrations were kept down with the strong hand of her mother.

Hippolyta and Philippa Horsman were in tightly-made short-skirted dresses, pork-pie hats, and strong boots, all black picked out with scarlet, like Hippo’s own complexion.  She was tall, with a good active figure, and handsome, but she had reached the age when the colouring loses its pure incarnadine and becomes hard and fixed, and she had a certain likeness to all those creatures whose names are compounded of tiger.  But she was a good-natured being, and of late I had begun to understand better her aspirations towards doing and becoming something more than the mere domestic furniture kind of young lady.

Her aberrations against good taste and reticence were, I began to understand, misdirected outbreaks of the desire to be up and doing.  Even now, as we ladies drew for our turn, she was saying, half sadly, “I’m tired of it all.  What good comes of getting this belt over and over again?  If it were rifle or pistol shooting it might be of use, but one could hardly organise a regiment of volunteers with the long bows when the invasion comes off.”

Wit about the Amazonian regiment with the long bow was current all the time we ladies were shooting, and Eustace was worrying me to such a degree, that nervousness made me perform ten degrees worse than usual, but that mattered little, for Hippolyta, with another of her cui bono sighs, carried off the Roman mosaic that was the ladies’ prize, telling Pippa that it should be hers when the belt was won.

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Bosh!  There’s no one here who can handle a bow but Charlie Stympson.  One Alison is a spoon, and the other is a giant made to be conquered.  When he shot before, his arrows went right over the grounds, and stuck into a jackdaw’s nest on the church tower!  I can’t think why he came.”

“To make a feather in your cap.”

“What a substantial one!”

There I escaped to a seat by Lady Diana, where Viola could expend her enthusiasm in clutches and squeezes of my hand.  Eustace was by this time wrought up to such a state that he hardly knew what he was doing, and his first arrow wavered and went feebly aside.  Two or three more shot, and then the tall figure came to the front; one moment, and the cry was “Gold,” while Viola’s clap of the hands brought on her a frown from her mother, who thought demonstrativeness improper.  She had to content herself with pinching my fingers every time one of those shafts went home to the heart of the target, and Harold stood, only too facile princeps, while Eustace sauntered up to us with the old story about the sun or the damp, I forget which, only it was something that had spoilt his archery.

Hippolyta was undaunted.  The small target and longer range had thrown out many a competitor before now, and her not very low-pitched tone was heard observing that no dumb giant should beat her at her own tools.

Whatever had been her weariness of her successes before, it was gone now, and she shot splendidly.  Never had such shooting been known in the annals of the club, and scarcely a word passed as the two went pacing between the two little targets, Harold with his calm, easy movement, business-like but without effort, and Hippolyta with excitement beginning to tell on her.  Each time she passed us we saw her step more impetuous, the glow on her cheeks deeper, and at last that her eyes were full of tears; and after that, one arrow went into the outer white, and the last even into the green; while Harry’s final shot was into that one great confluent hole that the centre of the target had become.

“Heard ye the arrow hurtle through the sky? 
Heard ye the dragon monster’s deathful cry?”

whispered Viola.  “Mamma won’t let me cheer, and I must have it out somehow.”

And as I sprang up and hurried to Harold, she came with me, taking care to cast no look behind, for fear of detaining glances; and she put out both hands to shake his, as he stood with the smile lighting up his face as he saw the pleasure he had given; though Eustace never came forward, unable to rejoice where he had been so palpably and publicly excelled.

Hippolyta behaved well.  She came up holding out her hand, and saying, “Well, Mr. Alison, if one is to fall, it is a pleasure to have so mighty a victor.  But why did you never let me see before what a Palnatoke (if I must not say Tell) I had to deal with?”

“I had no time for the practices,” said Harold, puzzled as to who Palnatoke was.

“Worse and worse!  You don’t mean that you shoot like this without practice?”

“Lucy taught me a little.”

“Well, if heaven-born archers come down on one, there’s nothing for it but submitting.  Robin Hood must prevail,” said Hippolyta, as the belt was handed over to Harold, with a sigh that made him say in excuse, “I would not have done it, but that Eustace wanted to have it in his hands, for family reasons.”

“Then let him look to it; I mean to get it again next year.  And, I say, Mr. Alison, I have a right to some compensation.  All you archers are coming to lunch at Therford on Thursday, if the sun shines, to be photographed, you know.  Now you must come to breakfast, and bring your lion’s skin and your bow ­to be done alone.  It is all the consolation I ask.  Make him, Lucy.  Bring him.”

There was no refusing; and that was the way the photograph came to be taken.  We were reminded by a note after we went home, including in the invitation Eustace, who, after being a little sulky, had made up his mind that a long range was easier to shoot at than a short one, and so that he should have won the prize if he had had the chance; and the notion of being photographed was, of course, delightful to him.

“In what character shall you take me?” he asked of Miss Horsman, when we were going out on the lawn, and it dawned on him that Harry was to be a Hercules.

“Oh! as Adonis, of course,” said Hippo.

“Or Eurystheus,” whispered her sister.

Eustace did not understand, and looked pleased, saying something about a truly classical get up; but Harold muttered to me, “Aren’t they making game of him?”

“They will take care not to vex him,” I said.

But Harold could not overlook it, and took a dislike to the Horsmans on the spot, which all Hippolyta’s genuine admiration of him could not overcome.  She knew what the work of his eighteen months in England had been, and revered him with such enthusiasm for what she called his magnificent manhood and beneficence, as was ready on the least encouragement to have become something a good deal warmer; but whatever she did served to make her distasteful to him.  First, she hastily shuffled over Eustace’s portrait, because, as she allowed us to hear, “he would give her no peace till he was disposed of.”  And then she not only tormented her passive victim a good deal in trying to arrange him as Hercules, but she forgot the woman in the artist, and tried to make him bare his neck and shoulder in a way that made him blush while he uttered his emphatic “No, no!” and Baby Jack supported him by telling her she “would only make a prize-fighter of him.”  Moreover, he would have stood more at ease if the whole of Therford had not been overrun with dogs.  He scorned to complain, and I knew him too well to do so for him; but it was a strain on his self-command to have them all smelling about his legs, and wanting to mumble the lion skin, especially Hippo’s great bloodhound, Kirby, as big as a calf, who did once make him start by thrusting his long cold nose into his hand.  Hippo laughed, but Harold could do nothing but force out a smile.

And I always saw the disgusted and bored expression most prominently in her performance, which at the best could never have given the grandeur of the pose she made him take, with the lion skin over his shoulder, and the arrows and bow in his hand.  He muttered that a rifle would be more rational, and that he could hold it better, but withdrew the protest when he found that Hippo was ready to implore him to teach her to shoot with pistol, rifle ­anything.

“Your brother can show you.  You’ve only to fire at a mark,” was all that could be got out of him.

Nor would he be entrapped into a beneficent talk.  His great talent for silence served him well, and though I told him afterwards that he had not done Hippo justice ­for she honestly wanted an opening for being useful ­he was not mollified.  “I don’t like tongue,” was all he further said of her.

But whatever Hippo was, or whatever she did, I shall always be grateful to her for that photograph.