“A wee terrier that can worry a fox all by himself must be a gallant little beast, mustn’t he?” said Lady Adela, who seemed quite proud of her new acquisition.  “And I know he will find that stag for you, Mr. Moore, if he is to be found; for Donacha, or Duncan, is the wisest little creature you ever saw, I wish I could talk Gaelic, just to make him feel at home the first few days.”  Then she turned to her companions.  “Who began this round—­Mr. Lestrange?  Very well, when it comes to Sybil, I propose we let you gentlemen go off to your cigars in the gun-room; for poor Mr. Moore, I know, hasn’t been allowed to smoke all day; and I am sure he must be far too tired to think of playing poker.  How many do you want, Rose?”

When this round of poker was finished, the gentlemen did not seem to resent being dismissed to the so-called gun-room, where, round the great blazing peat fire, and with cigars and pipes and whiskey-and-soda to console them in their banishment, Lionel was called upon to give them more minute details regarding his day’s adventures.  And very various were the opinions expressed as to the chances of that stag being found.  Some ominous stories were told of the extraordinary distances deer were known to have run even when mortally wounded; and there were possibilities suggested of his having fallen into a rapid watercourse and been carried down to the rushing river; while Sir Hugh ventured to hint that, if he were not found on the morrow, the probability was that some shepherd, in his remote and lonely shieling just outside the forest, would be feasting on venison for a considerable time to come.  Lionel cared less now; heat and food had thawed him into a passive frame of mind; he was tired, worn out, and sleepy; and very glad was he when he was allowed to go to bed.

As a matter of fact, that magic one-horned stag was not found on the next day; no, nor any following day; nor has it ever been heard of since in those parts.  And if it vanished from the earth through some evil enchantment, be sure that Lionel—­who had picked up some of the superstitions of the neighborhood, and who had profited on a former occasion by the possession of a lucky sixpence—­be sure he attributed his cruel ill-fortune, solely and wholly, to that wretched red rag that had been given him by Miss Georgie Lestrange.

CHAPTER XII.

A GLOBE OF GOLD-FISH.

What, then, was the secret charm and fascination exercised over him by this extremely independent, not to say unapproachable, fisher-maiden; why should he be so anxious to win her approval; why should he desire to be continually with her—­even when all her attention was given to her salmon-line, and she apparently taking no notice of him whatever?  She was handsome, no doubt, and fine-featured and pleasant to look upon; she was good-humored, and friendly in her own way; and she had the education and manners and tact and