What was it that she had, and Kitty had, and Bess had had, and no one else in the world seemed to have? Why was she not his child, instead of these other two? Unnatural father that he was! But then, he felt himself to be unnatural in a good many ways. When a man got older he was more given to self-analysis than in his younger days. There were days when he did not feel like hunting not the fox, nor the otter, nor women could make him want to hunt; then he sat in the sun or by a fire and thought about himself ... not what he wanted to do, nor what he wanted to eat, but what he was. Searching, searching for something that was George Haredon, and the tragedy of it was or perhaps it wasn't a tragedy, merely an irritation that he did not know for what he searched. First he had sought it in Bess. Ah! If only he had married Bess! But Bess had run off with an actor. Then he had sought it in Kitty, but Kitty was a wanton. And now he sought it in the child.

Little Carolan as near his daughter as made little difference really.

Little Carolan, green-eyed, red-haired, with that elusive and mysterious quality which had been Bess's, which still was Kitty's.

"Well?" he questioned.

"It's her birthday," said Charles, 'and I thought she would enjoy a joke, so...”

Margaret cut in: "He gave her a dead shrew mouse wrapped up in paper.”

"Is that all?" said the squire, and glared at Carolan. He was filled with delight to see the colour fade from her cheeks and rapidly flow back again, to see her eyes flash and her head tilt up.

"She is a silly baby!" said Charles.

"Mamma's pampered baby.”

Carolan stamped her foot angrily.

"I am not. I am nine. I am not a baby." The squire drew her towards him. He held her small body imprisoned between his great knees.

She said: "That hurts me!" and put her hand on his knees to try to force them apart. He laughed; she delighted him, this funny little child. Perhaps, he thought, it was safer to love a child than a woman.

He loosened his grip.

"Why, Dammed, Carrie," he said, "I thought you were my chestnut mare, not a little girl!" And his eyes glistened with laughter. A smile turned up the corners of Carolan's mouth.

"I am not a bit like the chestnut mare.”

"What!" he said.

"With this carroty hair?" And he pulled her hair, not unkindly though.

"Now then," he said sternly, 'what made you lie on the floor and scream like that?”

You should not tell tales, Everard had said; at school it was the worst offence. So now she could not speak of the cruel thing Charles had done to her. She said nothing. But Margaret answered. Margaret hated trouble, and unless something drastic was done, she could see this affair of the shrew mouse drifting on interminably. Margaret was a dainty creature; she loved fine needlework and good manners; she disliked the sight of the shrew mouse as much as Carolan did, only for different reasons. She did not fear dead things; she thought them unpleasant and she hated the unpleasant.

So Margaret said: "Father, Charles gave Carolan a shrew mouse for her birthday, and it was dead and wrapped up in a parcel. Carolan hates dead shrew mice, and she thought it was a real present. And then he tried to make her kiss it.”

The squire's eyes narrowed as they rested on his son. There were times when he disliked the boy. He reminded him irritatingly of what he was himself at Charles's age. He could imagine Charles, blundering through life, making the same mistakes as he had made.

"Ah!" he said.

"Bullying, eh?" He stood up ponderously and caught the boy by his ear.

"How old are you, eh? Fifteen, is it? And you think it funny to tease little girls of nine?”

"It was only a joke." said Charles sullenly.

"Then, sir, it is time you were taught what is a good joke and what is a damned bad one!”

Now Carolan was very sorry for Charles. It was amazing with what speed she could slip from one mood to another. A moment ago she could have killed Charles, she had hated him so; but now to see him there, so red in the face, his eyes so full of shame, she was sorry for him, because humiliating him like this in front of her and Margaret was the worst possible thing that could happen to him.

The squire turned to Jennifer.

"Get the girl ready. I am taking her for a ride.”

Jennifer answered as sullenly as she dared: "Yes, sir." Then: "Margaret, you heard what your father said; you had better go and gel; into your riding kit immediately.”

"Not Margaret!" roared the squire.

"I mean Carolan!”

Jennifer bowed her head; she had no words, for if she had tried to speak then she would have burst into tears.

The squire turned to his son.

"And you," he said, 'will go to my bedroom. I have something to teach you. my boy! Go!" he shouted suddenly.

"Go at once!" He watched Charles go from the room. Then he turned to Jennifer.

"You heard what I said. Get the child ready." His eyes rested briefly on Carolan, and he tried to prevent a softness creeping into his voice.

"It'll be the worse for you, girl, if you keep me waiting!”

Then he strode out of the room.

Jennifer stood up and jerked Carolan by the arm.

"Come on, you little tell-tale. You have to be got ready to go riding with the squire. I hope your horse throws you! I do. I do indeed.”

Margaret shrugged her shoulders. She was used to scenes. She gave one disgusted glance at the brown paper and its contents still lying on the floor, and went into her room.

Jennifer pulled Carolan along the corridor to the room next to Margaret's, which was Carolan's. She threw her in and shut the door.

Jennifer leaned against the door; her eyes were brilliant, and there were dark patches under them.

"Get your things off," cried Jennifer.

"Did you hear or did you not hear the squire say you were to go riding with him?”

Carolan did not answer. She went to the cupboard and took out the fawn-coloured riding habit which had been Margaret's and which Margaret had said she could have. It was still a little too big for Carolan.

She took off her frock.

"Skin and grief!" jeered Jennifer, and hated the green eyes and the red hair which the squire was so taken with. The beast, she thought; trust him to be taken with a girl not his own daughter! She watched Carolan's struggling into the habit. There she stood, shabby yet devilishly attractive. Nine! She had the same look in her eyes as her mother had had. Did she know, the little harlot, that she looked like that? Could she, at nine? Oh, to be nine again! thought Jennifer; nine, with no knowledge of the terrible problems that beset one's later days!

"Better comb your hair," she said.

"It looks like a bird's nest!" She came over and stood by Carolan.

"Do you know what the squire is doing to Charles now?" she asked.

"He is whipping him," said Carolan.

"Yes. Because of you, you little harlot!"

 Carolan paused, the comb in her hand.

"What is a harlot?”

"Well enough you know," said Jennifer, and whispered venomously: "It is someone like you, and like your lady mother. That is a harlot.”

"Like me and my mother!" Carolan screwed up her face in concentration, trying to imagine in what way she was like her mother.

"I saw you!" said Jennifer.

"Smiling at the squire! Egging him on!”

"What?" said Carolan, puzzled "Ha!" said Jennifer.

"I wonder that Charles's dear mother does not come and haunt you that I do!”

Carolan put out her tongue. In broad daylight it was not so terrifying to think of Charles's dead mother.

"You can be saucy. Miss. If tonight she came into your room ...”

Jennifer made claws of her fingers and stared down at them.

"Everard says there are no such things as ghosts.”

"Doubtless it was because his mother told him not to frighten little girls. There are ghosts, so there!”

Tired and wearied was Jennifer, too tired for tormenting. She though longingly of the gin she kept locked up in her room.

"You had better not keep the squire waiting, unless you want a whipping.”

Carolan went down to the stables. She would rather have ridden alone than with the squire; she had never before ridden with him. They said he was a marvelous horseman. Carolan shivered in an ecstasy of terror.

One of the grooms came up to her and touched his forehead.

"Morning, Miss Carolan.”

"Good morning, Jake.”

Jake's chin was wagging, which it always did when he was amused; he was very amused this morning.

"Happy birthday to you. Miss Carolan!”

Carolan smiling dazzlingly. Fancy Jake's knowing it was her birthday!

"Oh, thank you, Jake! Is the pony ready?”

Jake's chin began to wag again.

"Is it, Jake?" she asked; she was fearful of another scene. If she was to ride with the squire, and her pony was not ready, there would be trouble; the squire hated waiting.

"Well, Missie, the pony bain't ready...”

"Oh, but Jake, did you not know "I weren't told to get no pony ready.

Miss Carolan.”

"Well, let us get him ready now ...”

"No, no, Missie, you durst not go in there!" She stared at him, round-eyed.

"What is in there, Jake?" "Twouldn't be for me to tell you. Miss Carolan." Then the squire came into the yard. He was whistling jauntily. He had enjoyed thrashing that arrogant youngster; it made him feel oddly young again.

"Ah!" he said, in ripe good humour.

"Ah! Mistress Carolan, eh? And Jake." He winked at Jake, and Jake's chin started to wag all over again.