“I think they must teach you to pay compliments at Oxford, Philip,” she answered, flushing with pleasure, “but it is all rubbish for you to say that I am pretty, because I know I am not”—­and then, confidentially, glancing round to see that there was nobody within hearing (Hilda was engaged with a porter in looking after her things):  “Just look at my nose, and you will soon change your mind.  It’s broader, and flatter, and snubbier than ever.  I consider that I have got a bone to pick with Providence about that nose.  Ah! here comes Hilda.  Isn’t she lovely!  There’s beauty for you if you like.  She hasn’t got a nose.  Come and show us to the carriage.  You will come and lunch with us to-morrow, won’t you?  I am so glad to get back to the old house again; and I mean to have such a garden!  ’Life is short, and joys are fleeting,’ as Aunt Chambers always says, so I mean to make the best of it whilst it lasts.  I saw your father yesterday.  He is a dear old man, though he has such awful eyes.  I never felt so happy in my life as I do now.  Good-bye.  One o’clock.”  And she was gone, leaving Philip with something to think about.

Philip’s reception at home was cordial and reassuring.  He found his father considerably aged in appearance, but as handsome and upright as ever, and to all appearance heartily glad to see him.

“I am glad to see you back, my boy,” he said.  “You come to take your proper place.  If you look at me, you will see that you won’t have long to wait before you take mine.  I can’t last much longer, Philip, I feel that.  Eighty-two is a good age to have reached.  I have had my time, and put the property in order, and now I suppose I must make room.  I went with the clerk, old Jakes, and marked out my grave yesterday.  There’s a nice little spot the other side of the stone that they say marks where old yeoman Caresfoot, who planted Caresfoot’s Staff, laid his bones, and that’s where I wish to be put, in his good company.  Don’t forget that when the time comes, Philip.  There’s room for another if you care to keep it for yourself, but perhaps you will prefer the vault.”

“You must not talk of dying yet, father.  You will live many years yet.”

“No, Philip; perhaps one, perhaps two, not more than two, perhaps a month, perhaps not a day.  My life hangs on a thread now.”  And he pointed to his heart.  “It may snap any day, if it gets a strain.  By the way, Philip, you see that cupboard?  Open it!  Now, you see that stoppered bottle with the red label?  Good.  Well now, if ever you see me taken with an attack of the heart (I have had one since you were away, you know, and it nearly carried me off), you run for that as hard as you can go, and give it me to drink, half at a time.  It is a tremendous restorative of some sort, and old Caley says that, if I do not take it when the next attack comes, there’ll be an end of ’Devil Caresfoot’;” and he rapped his cane energetically on the oak floor.