course that a little black-eyed girl, whose waist
he could span between his thumb and little
finger, and with hands that could hardly find
gloves small enough for them, could not shoot
so well as he.

Launcelot was nervous—that must be
confessed; and Violet was excited. Launcelot's
nervousness helped his failure; but Violet's
excitement helped her success. Her bullet
hit the mark every time straight in the centre,
and Launcelot never hit once; which was not
very pleasant in their respective conditions of
lord and subject; for so Launcelot classed
men and women—especially little women
with small waists—in his own magnificent
mind.

"He had not shot for a long time," he said,
"and he was out of practice. He drank coffee
for breakfast, and that had made his hand
unsteady—"

"And confess too, Cousin Launce," said
Violet, "that you were never very good at
shooting any time of your life, without coffee
or with it. Why, you don't even load properly;
how can you shoot if you don't know how
to load?  We can't read without an
alphabet!" In the prettiest manner possible she
took the pistol from her cousin's hand and
loaded it for him first drawing his charge.
"Now try again!" she said, speaking as if
to a child; "nothing like perseverance."

Launcelot was provoked, but subdued, and
he did as his little instructress bade him; to
fail, once more. His bullet went wide of the
target, and Violet's lodged in the bull's eye.
So Launcelot flung the pistols on the grass
and said, "It is a very unladylike amusement,
Miss Tudor; and I was much to blame
to encourage you in such nonsense." Offering
his arm to Ella, he walked sulkily away.

Violet looked after them both for some
time, watching them through the trees.
There was a peculiar expression in her face—
a mixture of whimsical humour, of pain, of
triumph, and of a wistful kind of longing, that
perhaps she was, in her own heart,
unconscious of. She then turned away; and with a
half sigh, said softly to herself: "It is a pity
Cousin Launcelot has such a bad temper!"

After this Launcelot became more and
more reserved to Violet, and more and more
affectionate to Ella. Although he often
wondered at himself for thinking so much of the
one—though only in anger and dislike—and
so little of the other. Why should he disturb
himself about Violet?

On the other hand Violet was distressed
at Launcelot's evident dislike for her. What
had she said? What had she done? She was
always good-tempered to him, and ready to
oblige. To be sure she had told him several
rough truths; but was not the truth always
to be told? And just see the good she had
done him! Look how much more active and
less spoilt he was now than he used to be.
It was all owing to her. She wished, for
Ella's sake, that he liked her better; for it
would be very disagreeable for Ella when she
married, if Ella's husband did not like to see
her in his house. It was really very
distressing. And Violet cried on her pillow that
night, thinking over the dark future when
she could not stay with Ella, because Ella*s
husband hated her.

This was after Violet had beaten Cousin
Launcelot three games of chess consecutively.
Launcelot had been furiously humiliated; for
he was accounted the best chess-player of the
neighbourhood. But Violet was really a good
player, and had won the prize at a chess club,
where she had been admitted by extraordinary
courtesy; it not being the custom of
that reputable institution to suffer womanhood
within its sacred walls. But she was
very unhappy about cousin Launce for all
that; and the next day looked quite pale and
cast down. Even Launcelot noticed his
obnoxious cousin's changed looks and asked
her, rather graciously, "If she were ill?"
To which question Violet replied by a blush,
a glad smile bursting out like a song, and a
pretty pout, "No, I am not ill, thank you."
Which ended their interchange of civilities
for the day.

Launcelot became restless, feverish,
melancholy, cross; at times boisterously gay, at
times the very echo of despair. He was
kind to Ella, and confessed to himself how
fortunate he was in having chosen her; but he
could not understand—knowing how much he
loved her—the extraordinary effect she had
upon his nerves. Her passiveness irritated
him. Her soft and musical voice made him
wretched; for he was incessantly watching
for a change of intonation or an emphasis
which never came. Her manners were
certainly the perfection of manners—he desired
none other in his wife—but, if she would
sometimes move a little quicker, or look interested
and pleased when he tried to amuse her,
she would make him infinitely happier. And
oh! if she would only do something more
than work those eternal slippers, how
glad he would be. "There they are," he
exclaimed aloud, as the two cousins passed
before his window. "By Jove, what a foot
that Violet has; and her hair, what a lustrous
black; and what eyes. Pshaw! what is it to
me what hair or eyes she has?" And he
closed his window and turned away. But, in
a minute after, he was watching the two girls
again, seeing only Violet. "The strange
strength of hate," he said, as he stepped out
on the lawn, to follow them.

Launcelot's life was very different now to
what it had been. He wondered at himself.
He had become passionately fond of riding,
and was looking forward to the hunting
season with delight. He rode every day
with his two cousins; and he and Violet had
races together, which made them sometimes
leave Ella and her grey for half an hour in
the lanes. He used to shoot too—practising
secretly—until one day he astonished Violet