“Very well,” said Howard, “that is a bargain.  It is exactly what I want.  Do begin at once, and let me have the first instalment of the Chronicles of Windlow.”

They had arrived by this time at a point high on the downs.  The rough white road, full of flints, had taken them up by deep-hedged cuttings, through coverts where the spring flowers were just beginning to show in the undergrowth, and out on to the smooth turf of the downs.  They were near the top now, and they could see right down into Windlow Malzoy, lying like a map beneath them; the top of the Church tower, its leaden roof, the roofs of the Vicarage, the little straggling street among its orchards and gardens; farther off, up the valley, they could see the Manor in its gardens; beyond the opposite ridge, a far-off view of great richness spread itself in a belt of dark-blue colour.  It was a still day; on the left hand there was a great smooth valley-head, with a wood of beeches, and ploughed fields in the bottom.  They directed their steps to an old turfed barrow, with a few gnarled thorn trees, wind-swept and stunted round it.

“I love this place,” said Maud; “it has a nice name, the ’Isle of Thorns.’  I suppose it is a burial-place—­some old chief, papa says—­ and he is always threatening to have him dug up; but I don’t want to disturb him!  He must have had a reason for being buried here, and I suppose there were people who missed him, and were sorry to lay him here, and wondered where he had gone.  I am sure there is a sad old story about it; and yet it makes one happy in a curious way to think about it all.”

“Yes,” said Howard, “‘the old, unhappy, far-off things,’ that turn themselves into songs and stories!  That is another puzzle; one’s own sorrows and tragedies, would one like to think of them as being made into songs for other people to enjoy?  I suppose we ought to be glad of it; but there does not seem anything poetical about them at the time; and yet they end by being sweeter than the old happy things.  The ‘Isle of Thorns’!  Yes, that is a beautiful name.”

Suddenly there came a faint musical sound on the air, as sweet as honey.  Howard held up his hand.  “What on earth or in heaven is that?” he said.

“Those are the chimes of Sherborne!” said Maud.  “One hears them like that when the wind is in this quarter.  I like to hear them—­ they have always been to me a sort of omen of something pleasant about to happen.  Perhaps it is in your honour to-day, to welcome you!”

“Well,” said Howard, “they are beautiful enough by themselves; and if they will bring me greater happiness than I have, I shall not object to that!”

They smiled at each other, and stood in silence for a little, and then Maud pointed out some neighbouring villages.  “All this,” she said, “is Cousin Anne’s—­and yours.  I think the Isle of Thorns is yours.”

“Then the old chief shall not be disturbed,” said Howard.