She left the window and walked restlessly about her room, a room that she loved very greatly because it had been the study of the Sieur Amadis.  It was a wonderful room, oak-panelled from floor to ceiling, and there was no doubt about its history,—­the Sieur Amadis himself had taken care of that.  For on every panel he had carved with his own hand a verse, a prayer, or an aphorism, so that the walls were a kind of open notebook inscribed with his own personal memoranda.  Over the wide chimney his coat-of-arms was painted, the colours having faded into tender hues like those of autumn leaves, and the motto underneath was “Mon coeur me soutien.”  Then followed the inscription: 

“Amadis de Jocelin,
Knight of France,
Who here seekynge Forgetfulness did here fynde Peace.”

Every night of her life since she could read Innocent had stood in front of these armorial bearings in her little white night-gown and had conned over these words.  She had taken the memory and tradition of Amadis to her heart and soul.  He was her ancestor,—­ hers, she had always said;—­she had almost learned her letters from the inscriptions he had carved, and through these she could read old English and a considerable amount of old French besides.  When she was about twelve years old she and Robin Clifford, playing about together in this room, happened to knock against one panel that gave forth a hollow reverberant sound, and moved by curiosity they tried whether they could open it.  After some abortive efforts Robin’s fingers closed by chance on a hidden spring, which being thus pressed caused the panel to fly open, disclosing a narrow secret stair.  Full of burning excitement the two children ran up it, and to their delight found themselves in a small square musty chamber in which were two enormous old dower-chests, locked.  Their locks were no bar to the agility of Robin, who, fetching a hammer, forced the old hasps asunder and threw back the lids.  The coffers were full of books and manuscripts written on vellum, a veritable sixteenth-century treasure-trove.  They hastened to report the find to Farmer Jocelyn, who, though never greatly taken with books or anything concerning them, was sufficiently interested to go with the eager children and look at the discovery they had made.  But as he could make nothing of either books or manuscripts himself, he gave over the whole collection to Innocent, saying that as they were found in her part of the house she might keep them.  No one—­not even Robin—­knew how much she had loved and studied these old books, or how patiently she had spelt out the manuscripts; and no one could have guessed what a wide knowledge of literature she had gained or what fine taste she had developed from her silent communications with the parted spirit of the Sieur Amadis and his poetical remains.  She had even arranged her room as she thought he might have liked it, in severe yet perfect taste.  It was now her study as it had been his,—­the heavy