build a cottage, and nobody seemed to know who put it up or for what purpose the place was selected. It was there when William Chesney bought the estate and it was a long time before he knew of its existence.

Tom Thrush, head gamekeeper at Trent Park, occupied it, living there with his daughter Jane, a pretty girl of twenty, a lonely place for her; yet she liked it and loved to wander in the woods and roam about in the great forest bordering on the Park.

Tom Thrush, for many years, was employed at Chesney's Brewery; it was at his own request he was sent to Trent Park and installed as second keeper and then raised to head keeper in the course of a few years. He was a strange man, lonely, taciturn, passionately fond of his daughter, and spent the bulk of his time in the forest, where he studied wood-craft and the habits of all wild birds and animals. There was something almost uncanny in the way he made friends with the wild things of the woods and forests; no living bird or animal seemed to fear him, and he taught Jane much wild lore and how to make friends with the denizens of the woods.

The preserving of game was strictly carried out at Trent Park and thousands of birds were killed every season; in this Tom Thrush was most successful, a prince among keepers.

The Park abounded with massive oaks, and no doubt at one time had been part of Sherwood Forest, and these were ancient trees that had been spared when others fell. Centuries old some of them, with vast trunks and huge gnarled, twisted branches which seemed to have suffered from terrible convulsions of nature, been put on the wrack, as it were, and come forth mutilated in a hundred deformities.

There were deer in the Park, and white cattle, almost wild, sometimes dangerous, they were confined in a strong ring fence.

One part of the Park was laid out in paddocks for the blood stock, and here the young thoroughbreds from the Trent Stud galloped about and played their games until it was time for them to be broken in and sent to the trainer.

Well-kept roads ran in various directions through the Park, there was plenty of water, a minor river running through on its way to join the Trent. It was indeed a glorious place and Alan Chesney might well be counted a lucky man to own it.

His two friends had gone, after staying a week, and it was arranged they should meet at Epsom for the Derby.

It was seldom Alan Chesney was alone in the big house; many times he wished it smaller, not so roomy, more cosy, in keeping with his bachelor habits. There were parts of it he had only been in once or twice. The long picture gallery he shunned, although some exquisite modern paintings hung there.

When he came into possession he had some of the smaller and brighter pictures removed into the living rooms and the spaces were still left vacant. The windows in this gallery overlooked the Park, in the distance the keep could be seen, and farther away a corner of the monastery. There were large reception-rooms, and bedrooms the size of the ground floor of a small house. The dining-room was oak panelled, the ceiling oak, and it was furnished with massive chairs and a huge table. There was a great sideboard, carved by Gibbons, which cost an enormous sum, carvings adorned the wood mantelpiece over the open fireplace. It was a room in which fifty guests might sit down with ease.

Alan had his favorite rooms, the smallest in the house; his study was a model of comfort, and there was another room opening from it which contained all his sporting paraphernalia. There were guns of various makes, over a dozen; Harry Morby had tested some of them and expressed the opinion that a bad shot might kill birds with such weapons.

A case of fishing-rods occupied one side of the room. Half a dozen saddles, some racing jackets, bridles, dog collars, boxing gloves, foils, whips, boots, spurs, miscellaneous tools handy for sporting purposes.

Pictures of racing and hunting scenes hung on the walls; there was a life-like painting of Fred Archer, the beautiful eyes being perfect, also another of Tom Cannon, Mornington Cannon, George Fordham, portraits of Maher, Frank Wotton and several well-known gentleman riders who were friends of Alan's.

This was the room where guests were wont to congregate and talk over the day's shooting, or discuss the merits of horses and jockeys.

Alan had breakfast, and came into this room to read the papers before going for his customary ride; he was always ready and fit to accept a mount in a welter race, or ride over the sticks in the hurdle and chasing season.

He looked carelessly at half a dozen papers but his attention wandered, he could not concentrate his thoughts on anything he saw, he read bits here and there but they were not fixed in his mind. He tossed the papers in a heap on the table, filled his pipe and smoked dreamily.

There were a dozen servants in the house but he was the only occupant of the owner's quarters. He did not feel exactly lonely, but he liked somebody to talk with, and having been a few days by himself he wished for company.

Evelyn Berkeley was at The Forest and he thought he would ride over and see her; she was always good company and he liked her, but she was dangerously charming and he acknowledged he felt the influence when in her presence.

Why not marry her? He was sure she would accept him if he proposed, and there was no woman more fitted to be the mistress of Trent Park.

More than once he had been on the verge of putting the question to her but something prevented him and he was rather glad he had escaped.

Over and over again he had asked himself if he loved her and found no satisfactory answer.

He knew many of his male friends accepted it as a foregone conclusion he would marry Evelyn Berkeley, and he smiled as he thought how they discussed him and his matrimonial prospects.

It pleased him to think she preferred his society to that of other men, it flattered him when he recalled she might have been a countess had she wished. He asked her why she did not accept the titled suitor and she replied that titles had no attraction for her, that her mind was made up; there was somebody she liked very much, he might ask her to be his wife some day and she would wait.

He rode several miles at a fast pace in the Park before turning his horse's head in the direction of The Forest.

As he was passing the monastery ruins he saw Jane Thrush. She looked very sweet and winsome in her plain brown frock which matched the color of her hair; she had no hat, and its luxurious growth added to her rather refined rustic beauty.

Alan was always courteous to women, and Jane was one of his favorites; so was her father, he had a sincere regard for the sturdy, silent gamekeeper.

"Beautiful morning, Jane," he said. "You love to be out in the sun?"

She smiled at him. How handsome he looked on his horse, and how well he sat the animal!

"I am going to Little Trent to buy a few things for the house. I generally go through the wood," she said.

"You and your father live quiet lives here. Wouldn't you like to be in the village?" he asked.

"Oh no. I love the old ruin, and the cottage is so sweet I couldn't bear to leave it, and I'm sure Father would sooner be here than anywhere," said Jane eagerly.

Alan laughed as he replied:

"Don't be alarmed, you shall live in the cottage as long as you like.
Do you ever feel afraid when you are alone at night?"

"No; why should I? No one ever