and the old man, and have seen that they were father and daughter; for
Godfrey Heron had been one of the handsomest men of his time, and
though she had got her dark eyes and the firm, delicate lips from her
mother, the clear oval of her face and its expression of aristocratic
pride had come from the Herons.

"Are you here still, father?" she said. "It is nearly dinner-time, and
you are not dressed. You promised me that you would go out: how wicked
of you not to have done so!"

He shuffled back to the table and made a great business of closing the
book.

"I've been busy--reading, Ida," he said. "I did not know it was so
late. You have been out, I see; I hope you have enjoyed your ride. Have
you met anyone?"

"No," she replied; then she smiled, as she added: "Only a poacher."

The old man raised his head, a faint flush came on his face and his
eyes flashed with haughty resentment.

"A poacher! What are the keepers about! Ah, I forgot; there are no
keepers now; any vagrant is free to trespass and poach on Herondale!"

"I'm sorry, father!" she said, laying her hand on his arm soothingly.
"It was not an ordinary poacher, only a gentleman who had mistaken the
Heron water for the Avory's. Come now, father, you have barely time to
dress."