lost her looks and seemed to care for nothing but the child.  Stornham village saw next to nothing of her, and it certainly was not she who had the dispensing of her fortune.  Rumour said Sir Nigel lived high in London and foreign parts, but there was no high living at the Court.  Her ladyship’s family had never been near her, and belief in them and their wealth almost ceased to exist.  If they were rich, Stornham felt that it was their business to mend roofs and windows and not allow chimneys and kitchen boilers to fall into ruin, the simple, leading article of faith being that even American money belonged properly to England.

As Miss Vanderpoel walked at a light, swinging pace through the one village street the gazers felt with Kedgers that something new was passing and stirring the atmosphere.  She looked straight, and with a friendliness somehow dominating, at the curious women; her handsome eyes met those of the men in a human questioning; she smiled and nodded to the bobbing children.  One of these, young enough to be uncertain on its feet, in running to join some others stumbled and fell on the path before her.  Opening its mouth in the inevitable resultant roar, it was shocked almost into silence by the tall young lady stooping at once, picking it up, and cheerfully dusting its pinafore.

“Don’t cry,” she said; “you are not hurt, you know.”

The deep dimple near her mouth showed itself, and the laugh in her eyes was so reassuring that the penny she put into the grubby hand was less productive of effect than her mere self.  She walked on, leaving the group staring after her breathless, because of a sense of having met with a wonderful adventure.  The grand young lady with the black hair and the blue hat and tall, straight body was the adventure.  She left the same sense of event with the village itself.  They talked of her all day over their garden palings, on their doorsteps, in the street; of her looks, of her height, of the black rim of lashes round her eyes, of the chance that she might be rich and ready to give half-crowns and sovereigns, of the “Meriker” she had come from, and above all of the reason for her coming.

Betty swung with the light, firm step of a good walker out on to the highway.  To walk upon the fine, smooth old Roman road was a pleasure in itself, but she soon struck away from it and went through lanes and by-ways, following sign-posts because she knew where she was going.  Her walk was to take her to Mount Dunstan and home again by another road.  In walking, an objective point forms an interest, and what she had heard of the estate from Rosalie was a vague reason for her caring to see it.  It was another place like Stornham, once dignified and nobly representative of fine things, now losing their meanings and values.  Values and meanings, other than mere signs of wealth and power, there had been.  Centuries ago strong creatures had planned and built it for such reasons as strength has for its planning