The way he had chosen to walk was known as a ‘short cut’ to Abbot’s Manor, and ten minutes of easy striding brought him into the dewy coolness of a thicket of dark firs, at the end of which, round a sharp turn, the fine old red brick and timbered gables of the house came into full view.  He paused a moment, looking somewhat regretfully at the picture, warmly lit up by the glow of the bright sun,—­a picture which through long habitude of observation had grown very sweet to him.  It was not every day that such a house as Abbot’s Manor came within reach of the archaeologist and antiquarian.  The beautiful tiled-roof—­the picturesque roughness and crookedness of the architectural lines of the whole building, so different to the smooth, hard, angular imitations of half-timbered work common in these degenerate days, were a delight to the eyes to rest upon,—­a wealth of ivy clung thickly to the walls and clambered round the quaint old chimneys;—­some white doves clustered in a group on the summit of one broad oak gable, were spreading their snowy wings to the warm sun and discussing their domestic concerns in melodious cooings;—­the latticed windows, some of which in their unspoilt antiquity of ‘horn’ panes were a particular feature of the house, were all thrown open,—­but to Walden’s sensitive observation there seemed a different atmosphere about the place,—­a suggestion of change and occupation which was almost startling.

He paced slowly on, and arrived at the outside gate, which led into a square old-fashioned court, such as was common to Tudor times, paved on three sides and planted with formal beds of flowers, the whole surrounded by an ancient wall.  The gate was ajar, and pushing it open he passed in, glancing for a moment at the grey weather-beaten sun-dial in the middle of the court which told him it was three-o’clock.  For four centuries, at least, that self-same dial had marked the hour in that self-same spot, a silent commentary on the briefness of human existence, as compared with its own strange non-sentient lastingness.  The sound of Walden’s footsteps on the old paving-stones awoke faint echoes, and startled away a robin from a spray of blossoming briar-rose, and as he walked up to the great oaken porch of entrance,—­a porch heavily carved with the Vaignecourt or Vancourt emblems, and as deep and wide in its interior as a small room, an odd sense came over him that he was no longer an accustomed visitor to a beautiful ‘show house,’ so much as a kind of trespasser on forbidden ground.  The thick nail-studded doors, clamped with huge bolts and bars, stood wide open; no servant was on the threshold to bid him enter, and for a moment he hesitated, uncertain whether to ring the bell, or to turn back and go away, when suddenly Mrs. Spruce emerged from a shadowy corner leading to the basement, and hailed his appearance with an exclamation of evident relief.