“What on earth is the old villain up to now?” was the natural comment of the surprised Tatham.

Was it simply the advent of a guest—­an invalid guest—­that had wrought such changes?

One of the gardeners, seeing him as he approached the gate, came running up to hold his horse.  Tatham, who knew everybody and prided himself on it, recognized him as the son of an old Duddon keeper.

“Well, Backhouse, you’re making a fine clearance here!”

“Aye!  It’s took us days, your lordship.  But we’re about through wi’ this side, howivver.”  He pointed to the east wing.

“One can see now what a jolly old place it is,” said Tatham, pausing in the gateway to survey the scene.

Backhouse grinned responsively.

“I do believe, my lord, Muster Melrose hissel’ is pleased.  He stood a lang while lookin’ at it this morning, afore he started oot.”

“Well, no one can deny it’s an improvement!” laughed Tatham, as he walked toward the house.

Dixon had already opened the door.  Slave and factotum of Melrose as he was, he shared the common liking of the neighbourhood for young Lord Tatham.  Two of his brothers were farmers on the Duddon estate; and one of them owed his recovery from a dangerous and obscure illness to the fact that, at the critical moment, Tatham had brought over a specialist from Leeds to see him, paying all expenses.  These things—­and others besides—­were reflected in the rather tremulous smile with which Dixon received the visitor.

“Mr. Faversham expects me?”

“Aye, aye, my lord.”  The old man quickly led the way through the front hall, more quickly than Tatham’s curiosity liked.  He had time to notice, however, the domed and decorated ceiling, the classical mantelpiece, with its medallions and its pillars of Sienese marble, a couple of bold Renaissance cabinets on either side, and a central table, resting on carved sphinxes, such as one might find in the sala of a Venetian palace.

But as they turned into the corridor or gallery Tatham’s exclamation brought Dixon to a halt.  He faced round upon the young man, revealing a face that worked with hardly repressed excitement, and explained that the furnishing and arrangement had been only completed that day.  It had taken them eight days, and Barclay’s men were only just gone.

Tatham frankly expressed his surprise and admiration.  The whole gallery and both of its terminal windows had now been cleared.  The famous series of rose-coloured tapestries, of which Undershaw had seen the first specimens, had been hung at intervals throughout its length; and from the stores of the house had been brought out more carpets, more cabinets, mirrors, pictures, fine eighteenth-century chairs, settees, occasional tables, and what not.  Hastily as it had been done, the brilliance of the effect was great.  There was not, there could not be, the beauty that comes from old use and habit—­from the ordered