very well to say that Good Queen Bess could never have visited half the places or slept in half the rooms which boast of her occupation, but she really did stay here. I'll show you her room to-morrow, and tell you all about it. I don't think you would care to sleep in her bed, although you may if you like. I wouldn't for worlds. It is too much like a catafalque. Now, here you are arrived at last."

"I don't believe I shall ever find my way down," said Philippa. "I never saw such passages. We seem to have walked for miles!"

"Oh! we haven't really. It is quite easy. You'll soon get used to it. You must turn twice to the right, that is all. But I'll come and fetch you, so as to make sure that you don't get lost. Are you certain that you have everything you want?"

"I am certain of it, in this charming room, and—— Oh, my dear! Violets! How do you manage to have violets at this time of year?"

Philippa buried her face in a fragrant bunch which stood in a vase on the dressing-table. "My favourite flower of all!"

"We always have them. There is a pitiful story attached to violets at Bessacre, but that again must wait until to-morrow. Now I must fly. I have only got twenty minutes to dress in, and Bill will be raging."

Philippa's maid had already unpacked, and she now quickly and deftly assisted her to dress. The girl's clothes had been a constant cause of irritation to her mother, whose taste for frills and fripperies did not agree with her daughter's preference for simplicity, but she had been reluctantly compelled to acknowledge that Philippa's style of dressing was becoming, even if it did not follow strictly the ever-varying dictates of fashion. Nothing could have suited her better than the picturesque gown of pale yellow chiffon which she now put on. It was very simply made, but the perfection of its simplicity, the draping of the fichu of old lace on the bodice, and the graceful lines of the soft material from waist to hem, betrayed its Parisian origin in every fold.

Round her neck Philippa fastened a narrow band of black velvet, and her only ornament was a small brooch of pearls set in the form of a heart. This trinket she had found in a dispatch-box belonging to her father, while going through some papers after his death, and it was one she frequently wore.

At the last moment, unable to resist the charm of her favourite flower, she secured the bunch of violets in the laces at her breast.

Then Marion's voice was heard outside the door, and telling her maid that she would not require her services again that night, that she need not wait up for her, Philippa hurried to meet her friend.

"Dear thing! How nice you look," was Marion's comment. "What a lovely frock."

"I am so glad you like it. Poor mamma! She said it was too Early Victorian for anything. She despairs over my frocks."

"It is perfect," said Marion decidedly. "Thank goodness you know what suits you, and haven't got your skirt tied in at the ankles so that you shuffle like a Japanese."

"Or hop like a kangaroo!" added Philippa, laughing.

They descended into the hall, where Major Heathcote was standing in front of a cheerful fire which, notwithstanding the time of year, was crackling and spluttering on the hearth.

"Don't be shocked," he said cheerfully. "I hope you are not one of those uncomfortable people who consider fires immoral between May and October. The evenings are none too warm in this realm where sunshine never lingers and summer is unknown, and this house is always cold, or I feel it so—probably because I have lived for so long in more sultry climes."

"Yes, I expect you miss the sunshine," said Philippa as they walked into the dining-room.

"No. Do you know, I don't. Here in England people can't understand that you can have too much of it. You get so weary of perpetual glaring sunshine, and unchanging blue sky. There seems to be no variety and no rest, I remember as I landed from the trooper at Southampton after the South African war, hearing a Tommy say with a sigh of relief, 'Thank Gawd for a blooming grey sky,' and I quite agreed with him."

"I love the sunshine," said Marion, "and certainly we don't get too much of it here."

"No," replied Philippa; "but you do get the most wonderful cloud effects. Driving here this evening the sky was perfectly beautiful—a great bank of clouds like mountains and soft fleecy ones touched with pink overhead."

"What Dickie used to call the weeny woolly ones," said Marion softly. "Dear little boy, I wish he were here now. I remember once when he was much smaller we were walking on Bessmoor where you get such a wonderful view—he looked up and said, 'Does God live up there?' and I said, 'Yes,' because it was the only answer you could give a baby to such a question. 'Above the weeny woolly clouds?' he persisted. 'Yes,' I said again. 'Then,' he said in an awe-struck voice, 'He must be very careful not to put His foot through!'"

"How curious a child's mind is," said Philippa, "At least not curious, but so perfectly literal."

"That is why it is so difficult to answer them," put in Major Heathcote. "He asks me the most appalling questions, and goes on asking them until I answer him. But don't encourage his proud mother," he added, laughing. "If you once allow her to talk about her precious boy you will never be able to switch her off on to any other topic of conversation."

"Well," retorted Marion, "I am sure Dickie is more interesting than the weather, and I always let you talk about that. Besides, don't you believe him, Philippa; he talks about our Dickie just as much as I do."

"Now tell me," said Major Heathcote presently, "what do you like to see and do while you are here? What is your particular line? I suppose you have one?—every one has now-a-days. Is it old furniture shops? If so we can motor over to Eastminster, where you can poke about in dust and dirt to your heart's content. Or is it something more learned—abbeys and architecture? If so there are Castle Hill and the ruins of Bessmoor Priory. Or pictures at Longmead—or scenery? Make your choice. The only things we can not supply are social functions. Our neighbours are few and far between, and many of them are away just now."

"You can strike the last items off your list," rejoined Philippa decidedly; "I certainly don't want them. I just want to be allowed to do nothing in particular except see a great deal of your lovely country in the quietest and laziest way possible, please. These little villages fascinate me—all clustering round a church which looks far too big and important for the number of cottages. Why have you so many churches about here? I counted eight on my way from the station."

"Ah!" was the reply, "times have changed in these parts since the days when the priors and monks raised these churches, and since the countryside was thickly populated. Silk and wool were staple industries here then. Many and various causes have brought about the change. First they say that the Black Death raged more violently here than in any other part of England, and second—— Excuse me!" Major Heathcote broke off suddenly as the butler handed him a telegram. "How did this come at this hour?"

"Miss Brooks sent it up, sir; Bailey's boy brought it on a bicycle—she thought——" The man's voice trailed away into silence at the look on his master's face.

Major Heathcote's eyes were fixed on the pink slip in his hand, and Philippa, who was watching him, saw his face darken suddenly and his rather square jaw shoot forward as a strong man's will in the face of danger.

Then he rose quickly and walked round to his wife.

"Old girl!" he said, "I am afraid the boy isn't very fit—Jack wires that he seems seedy, and that they have got a man over from York. Don't be anxious, it's probably nothing much—but I think I'll run up and see."

"Dickie! Oh, Bill!" faltered Marion. "What does he say? Let me see."

"That's all. Just 'Dickie doesn't seem well, have wired for