From the Monkland estate, flowered, lawned, and timbered, to the open moor, was like passing to another world; for no sooner was the last lodge of the Western drive left behind, than there came into sudden view the most pagan bit of landscape in all England.  In this wild parliament-house, clouds, rocks, sun, and winds met and consulted.  The ‘old’ men, too, had left their spirits among the great stones, which lay couched like lions on the hill-tops, under the white clouds, and their brethren, the hunting buzzard hawks.  Here the very rocks were restless, changing form, and sense, and colour from day to day, as though worshipping the unexpected, and refusing themselves to law.  The winds too in their passage revolted against their courses, and came tearing down wherever there were combes or crannies, so that men in their shelters might still learn the power of the wild gods.

The wonders of this prospect were entirely lost on little Ann, and somewhat so on Courtier, deeply engaged in reconciling those two alien principles, courtesy, and the love of looking at a pretty face.  He was wondering too what this girl of twenty, who had the self-possession of a woman of forty, might be thinking.  It was little Ann who broke the silence.

“Auntie Babs, it wasn’t a very strong house, was it?”

Courtier looked in the direction of her small finger.  There was the wreck of a little house, which stood close to a stone man who had obviously possessed that hill before there were men of flesh.  Over one corner of the sorry ruin, a single patch of roof still clung, but the rest was open.

“He was a silly man to build it, wasn’t he, Ann?  That’s why they call it Ashman’s Folly.”

“Is he alive?”

“Not quite—­it’s just a hundred years ago.”

“What made him build it here?”

“He hated women, and—­the roof fell in on him.”

“Why did he hate women?”

“He was a crank.”

“What is a crank?”

“Ask Mr. Courtier.”

Under this girl’s calm quizzical glance, Courtier endeavoured to find an answer to that question.

“A crank,” he said slowly, “is a man like me.”

He heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of Ann’s dispassionate examining eyes.

“Is Uncle Eustace a crank?”

“You know now, Mr. Courtier, what Ann thinks of you.  You think a good deal of Uncle Eustace, don’t you, Ann?”

“Yes,” said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her.  But Courtier gazed sideways—­over her hatless head.

His exhilaration was increasing every moment.  This girl reminded him of a two-year-old filly he had once seen, stepping out of Ascot paddock for her first race, with the sun glistening on her satin chestnut skin, her neck held high, her eyes all fire—­as sure to win, as that grass was green.  It was difficult to believe her Miltoun’s sister.  It was difficult to believe any of those four young Caradocs related.  The grave ascetic Miltoun, wrapped in the garment of his spirit; mild, domestic, strait-laced Agatha; Bertie, muffled, shrewd, and steely; and this frank, joyful conquering Barbara—­the range was wide.