‘There’s the place,’ Lady Charlotte said to Weyburn, as they had view of it at a turn of the park.  She said to herself—­where I was born and bred! and her sight gloated momentarily on the house and side avenues, a great plane standing to the right of the house, the sparkle of a little river running near; all the scenes she knew, all young and lively.  She sprang on her seat for a horse beneath her, and said, ’But this is healthy excitement,’ as in reply to her London physician’s remonstrances.  ‘And there’s my brother Rowsley, talking to one of the keepers,’ she cried.  ’You see Lord Ormont?  I can see a mile.  Sight doesn’t fail with me.  He ’s insisting.  ’Ware poachers when Rowsley’s on his ground!  You smell the air here?  Nobody dies round about Steignton.  Their legs wear out and they lie down to rest them.  It ’s the finest air in the world.  Now look, the third window left of the porch, first floor.  That was my room before I married.  Strangers have been here and called the place home.  It can never be home to any but me and Rowsley.  He sees the carriage.  He little thinks!  He’s dressed in his white corduroy and knee-breeches.  Age! he won’t know age till he’s ninety.  Here he comes marching.  He can’t bear surprises.  I’ll wave my hand and call.’

She called his name.

In a few strides he was at the carriage window.  ‘You, Charlotte?’

’Home again, Rowsley!  Bring down your eyebrows, and let me hear you’re glad I ‘ve come.’

‘What made you expect you would find me here?’

’Anything-cats on the tiles at night.  You can’t keep a secret from me.  Here’s Mr. Weyburn, good enough to be my escort.  I ‘ll get out.’

She alighted, scorning help; Weyburn at her heels.  The earl nodded to him politely and not cordially.  He was hardly cordial to Lady Charlotte.

That had no effect on her.  ‘A glorious day for Steignton,’ she said.  ’Ah, there’s the Buridon group of beeches; grander trees than grow at Buridon.  Old timber now.  I knew them slim as demoiselles.  Where ’s the ash?  We had a splendid ash on the west side.’

‘Dead and cut down long since,’ replied the earl.

‘So we go!’

She bent her steps to the spot:  a grass-covered heave of the soil.

‘Dear old tree!’ she said, in a music of elegy:  and to Weyburn:  ’Looks like a stump of an arm lopped off a shoulder in bandages.  Nature does it so.  All the tenants doing well, Rowsley?’

‘About the same amount of trouble with them.’

‘Ours at Olmer get worse.’

‘It’s a process for the extirpation of the landlords.’

‘Then down goes the country.’

’They ‘ve got their case, their papers tell us.’

’I know they have; but we’ve got the soil, and we’ll make a, fight of it.’

‘They can fight too, they say.’

‘I should be sorry to think they couldn’t if they’re Englishmen.’