the squire had a touch of rheumatism, and was annoyed about it, but also inclined to give providence due credit for so visiting him, if he must be visited at all, at a time of hard frost. "if i coddle myself up to-day and perhaps to-morrow," he said over the luncheon table, "i shall be able to hunt all right on monday, if the frost breaks. i suppose you wouldn't care to go over those deepdene farm figures this afternoon, dick, eh?"

"we might have an hour with them before dinner," replied dick. "i thought of riding over to mountfield to see jim this afternoon. i want a little exercise."

"i don't know whether you will find jim in," said mrs. clinton. "muriel, and i think mrs. graham, are coming over here this afternoon."

"i'll take my chance," said dick.

the twins saw him off from the hall door. he rode a tall bay horse, which danced with impatience on the hard gravel of the drive as he looked him over, drawing on his gloves.

"dear old cicero! doesn't he look a beauty?" said nancy. "what was his figure, dick?"

"you will never be able to get on him," said joan. "shall i bring a chair?"

but dick was up and cantering over the crisp grass of the park, managing his nervous powerful mount as if he and the horse were of one frame and as if nothing could separate them.

"he does look jolly," said joan admiringly.

"he's a good man on a horse," acquiesced nancy.

"all the boys are. so they ought to be. they think about nothing else."

"you know, i think dick is just the sort of man a girl might fall in love with," said joan. "he's very good-looking, and he has just that sort of way with him, as if he didn't care for anybody."

"i expect lots of girls have fallen in love with him. the question is whether he is ever going to fall in love with them. i'm inclined to think he's turning it over in his mind. i dare say you were blinded by all that business at the dower-house this morning. i wasn't. you mark my word, joan, dick is going to get married."

"i shouldn't wonder. he's grown softer somehow. see how interested he was in the kitchen. who do you think it is, nancy?"

"my dear! don't you know that? it's grace ettien. didn't you notice what a fuss father made of her when she last come over? took her all round, and almost gave her the place. he doesn't treat girls like that as a rule."

"you didn't say so at the time."

"no; but i've put two and two together since. you see if i'm not right. by this time next year the dower-house will be occupied by captain and lady grace clinton—and oh, joan! perhaps there'll be another baby in the family!"

the ecstasy of the twins at this prospect was broken into by miss bird, who appeared behind them in the doorway and promised them their deaths of cold if they did not come indoors at once.

in the meantime dick was trotting along the hard country lanes, between the silent silvered winter woods and the frozen fields, always with an eye about him to see what things of fur and feather might share with him the winter solitude, what was doing in the hard-bound soil, and what in the clear spaces of the air. he had the eye of the countryman, trained from boyhood to observe and assimilate. he had lived for years the life of court and camp, had adapted himself as readily to the turmoil of london gaieties as to regimental duties in other stations at home and abroad, or to months of campaigning in egypt and south africa. he had skimmed the cream of all such experiences as had come in his way, but here in the depths of the english country, just here where his ancestors had lived for generation after generation, were placed the foundations of his life. here he was at home, as nowhere else in the world. all the rest was mere accident of time and place, of no account as compared with this one spot of english soil. here alone he was based and firmly rooted.

mountfield lay about four miles from kencote, and the two estates marched, although the one was small as compared with the other. two years before, jim graham, the owner of mountfield, had married cicely clinton, and his only sister just before that had married walter clinton, the doctor of melbury park, where the squire was so averse to looking for an heir. so the clintons and the grahams were bound together by close ties, and there was much coming and going between the two houses.

cicely's carriage was before the door as dick rode up, and she herself came out as he dismounted. she looked very pretty in her thick furs, young and fresh, and matronly at the same time.

"oh, dick, i'm so glad to see you," she said. "have you come to see jim? i'm afraid he's gone over to bathgate, and won't be back for some time."

"h'm! that's a bore," said dick. "you're going over to kencote, aren't you, siskin?"

"yes. i'm going to fetch mrs. graham and drive her over. but do come in for a minute or two."

"oughtn't to keep the horses long in this weather," said dick. "drive 'em about for a few minutes, carter. i'll just come in and throw my eye over the babies, siskin."

cicely's face brightened. she led the way into her morning-room, and turned to kiss her brother, her hands on his shoulders. "dear old dick!" she said. "do you really want to see the babies?"

"of course i do," he replied. "you've given us the taste for them over at kencote. the twankies foam at the mouth with pleasure whenever the babies are mentioned, and even the governor looks as if a light were switched on in his face when anything is said about them."

cicely rang the bell. "he is a doting grandfather," she said, with a smile. "i would take them over this afternoon, but it's too cold."

"nice room, this!" said dick, looking round him. "are you glad to be settled down in the country again, sis?"

"yes. awfully glad," she said. "i hated london, really. at least, i liked meeting the people, but you can only feel at home in the country."

"there was a time," said dick.

she blushed. "oh, don't talk about that, dick," she said, in some distress. "i was all wrong. i didn't know what i wanted. i know now. i want just this, and jim, and the babies. i was overjoyed when our two years in london were up, and jim said we could come back here if we kept quiet and lived carefully. here they are—the darlings!"

the tiny morsels of lace and silk-clad humanity—dick, the boy, nina, the baby girl—who were brought into the room in charge of a staid elderly smiling nurse, looked as happy babies ought to look—as if they belonged to the house and the house belonged to them. dick took up his namesake and godson in his arms and his keen face softened. "he's getting a great little man," he said. "when are you going to cut his hair, cicely?"

cicely scouted the idea. "men are always in such a hurry," she said. "dick, you ought to marry and have babies of your own."

"ah, well! perhaps i shall some day," said dick. "now i must be pushing on, and you oughtn't to keep the horses waiting, sis. good-bye, little chap."

"aren't you coming back to kencote?" cicely asked.

"not just yet. going to hack a few more miles. i haven't been on a horse for three weeks."

so cicely got into her carriage and dick's horse was brought round, and they went off in different directions.

cicely picked up her mother-in-law at her house just outside the park. mrs. graham was waiting for her at her garden gate, in company with a deerhound, a spaniel, and an irish terrier. she had on a coat and skirt of thick tweed, and a cloth hat with a cock's feather.

"i suppose there won't be a tea-party," she said, as she got into the carriage. "i did intend to put on smart clothes, but i found i couldn't be bothered when the time came. they must take me in my rags or not at all. you look smart enough, my girl."

"if i had your figure," said cicely, "i should never want to wear anything but country clothes."

"ah! now that's very nice of you," said mrs. graham. "i do wear well for fifty-three, and i'm not going to deny it. my face is a bit battered, of course. i must expect that, riding and tramping about in all weathers. but i'm as fit as if i were thirty years younger, and i don't know what more you can ask of life—unless it's to have your own people round you instead of a pack of molly-coddles."

cicely laughed. jim graham had let mountfield for two years after their marriage to a rich and childless couple, who spent most of their time in working at embroidery, and motoring about the country in a closed-in car, for neither of which pursuits mrs. graham had found it in her heart to forgive them.

"well, they're gone," she said. "and thank goodness for it. i should have let the lodge and gone away myself if they had stayed here any longer. cumberers of the ground, i call them, and what they wanted with a country house beats me. but you never know who you're going to get for neighbours nowadays. by the by, have you heard that old parson marsh has let blaythorn rectory for the hunting season?"

blaythorn was about three miles from mountfield, on the opposite side to kencote. cicely had not heard this piece of news.

"yes," said mrs. graham, "and to a lady of title, my dear—lady george dubec—no less. i haven't the ghost of an idea who she is. but no doubt your father will know. he is a regular walking peerage—knows who everybody is and whom everybody has married to the third and fourth generation. what accommodation poor old parson marsh has for hunters i don't know. i should think the lady must have been done in the eye. and as for the house—the last time i was in it it smelt so of dogs and tobacco-smoke that even i couldn't put up with it, and lord knows i'm not particular."

"where is mr. marsh going to live?" asked cicely.

"oh, i believe he has sacked his curate on the strength of it, and has taken his rooms. i don't know why he should have wanted a curate at all, except that he's so bone-idle, and i'm sure he can't afford one. he owes joynes the butcher over forty pounds. but, good gracious, cicely, don't encourage me to gossip. i'm getting a regular old hag. it's the influence of your late tenants, my dear. they loved village tittle-tattle, and i had to join in with it whenever we met, because there was nothing else in the wide world i could talk to them about. the worst of it is i was acquiring quite a taste for scandal. but i've turned over a new leaf. so has old marsh i suppose, and is going to pay up all his debts. i wish him well over his difficulties."

with such sprightly talk did mrs. graham pass away the time till they reached kencote, when she began all over again with mrs. clinton as audience. cicely had gone upstairs to see the twins and miss bird, and mrs. graham asked point-blank that mr. clinton might be informed of her arrival. "i have lots to tell him," she said, "and i want to ask him some questions besides."

mrs. clinton rang the bell, without saying anything, and a footman was sent with a message to the squire, who presently came in, bluff and hearty, but walking with a slight list.

"ah, mrs. graham!" he said as he shook hands. "come to cheer us up with a little gossip—what? but where are the grandchildren?"

"dear me! i forgot to ask," said mrs. graham. "i suppose it is too cold for them. but i've brought the dogs, mr. clinton."

"oh, the dogs!" said the squire, with his loud laugh. "no dogs in this house."

"i know," said mrs. graham. "and it's such a mistake. kencote is the only country house i know where there isn't a dog indoors. i never feel that it's properly inhabited."

"it was swarming with them in my grandfather's time," said the squire, "and i dare say would be now if that mongrel hadn't gone for dick when he was a little fellow. always kept 'em outside since. outside is the place for a dog."

"i don't agree with you," said mrs. graham. "and it isn't like a sportsman to say so. however, we needn't quarrel about that. who is lady george dubec, mr. clinton?"

"lady george dubec?" repeated the squire. "i suppose she's the wife—or the widow rather—of george dubec, the duke of queenstown's brother, and a pretty good rascal he was. got killed in a railway accident in america two or three years ago, and it was the best thing that could have happened to him. wish they'd kill off a few more like him. i didn't know he was married. why do you ask?"

"she has taken blaythorn rectory to hunt from. she came down yesterday or the day before."

"blaythorn rectory! to hunt from!'" exclaimed the squire. "well, that's the most extraordinary thing! are there any stables there? i never heard of marsh keeping anything but an old pony, and the whole place must be in the depths of dilapidation."

"well, i don't know. but there she is. and you don't know who she is. i thought you knew who everybody was, mr. clinton."

"wait a minute," said the squire, and he went over to a table where there were books of reference. "no, there's no marriage here," he said, turning over the pages of one of them, "except his first marriage thirty years ago. poor lady bertha grange that was, and he drove her into her grave within five years. the fellow was a brute and a blackleg. i was at school with him, and he was sacked. and i was at cambridge with him and he was sent down, for some disgraceful business, i forget what. then he was in the guards, and had to clear out of the service within a year for some precious shady racing transaction. the fellow had every possible chance, and he couldn't run straight. he went abroad after that, but used to turn up occasionally. nobody would have anything to do with him. i believe he settled down in america, if he could ever be said to settle down anywhere. i know he was in some scandalous divorce case. one used to hear his name come up occasionally, and always in an unsavoury sort of way. he was a wrong 'un, through and through, but a good-looking blackguard in his young days, and women used to stick up for him."

"well, he seems to be better out of the world than in it," said mrs. graham. "but what about his widow? you say she isn't down there."

"no, but this book is out of date. i've got a later one in my room. i'll send for it."

the new book gave the information required. lord george dubec had married five years before miss virginia vanreden, of philadelphia.

"oh, an american!" said mrs. graham. "well, i suppose i must go and call on her. even if i don't like her i shall be doing my duty to my neighbours in providing them with gossip. not that i like gossip—i detest it. still, one must find something to talk about. shall you call on her, mrs. clinton?"

the squire answered. "oh, i think not," he said. "i don't like hunting—er! hum! ha!"

"you don't like hunting women," said mrs. graham imperturbably. "i know you don't, mr. clinton. that's another point between us. but we're very good friends all the same."

"oh, of course, of course," said the squire. "nearly put my foot in it that time, mrs. graham, eh? ha! ha! well, with such old friends one can afford to make a mistake or two. no, i think we'll leave lady george dubec alone. she won't be here long, and i've no wish to be mixed up with anybody belonging to george dubec—alive or dead. i had the utmost contempt for the fellow. besides, i don't like americans, and any woman who would have married him after the life he'd led ... well, she may be all right, but i don't want to know her—that's all. i should like to know, though, how she got hold of blaythorn rectory, of all places, or why she has come to meadshire to hunt. the country pleases us all right, and we're quite content with our sport, but we're not generally honoured by strangers in that way."

"i dare say i can find out all about it," said mrs. graham. "and when i do i'll let you know."

cicely was sitting on the great roomy shabby sofa in the schoolroom, with a twin on either side of her, and miss bird upright in the corner, alternately tatting feverishly a pattern of lace thread and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. for the subject of conversation was her approaching departure, and, as she said, with all the kindness that had been showered on her and the affection that she felt she never would lose, it was no use pretending that she was glad she was going away, for she was not, but, on the contrary, very sorry.

"nancy and i are going to write to her once a week regularly," said joan. "we did think of writing every day at first, but we probably shouldn't keep it up."

"the spirit is willing, but the flesh might be weak," said nancy. "and there's no sense in overdoing things. anyhow, we have promised that we will never love miss prim half as much as we love our darling starling, and she is pleased at that, aren't you, starling darling?"

"of course i am pleased to be loved," replied miss bird; "but indeed, nancy, i should not like you to set yourself against your new governess on my account; it is not necessary and you can love one person without visiting it on another and i do not like you to call her miss prim."

"she is sure to be," said nancy elliptically. "we must call her something, and that's as good a name as any till we see what she is like."

"if you don't treat her respectfully she won't stay," said cicely.

"we haven't treated starling respectfully, but she has stayed all right," said joan. "i suppose you know we are going to have lessons besides, sis—drawing, and music, and deportment, and all sorts of things."

"oh, we're going to be well finished off while we're about it," said nancy. "we shall be ready to fill any position, from the highest to the lowest."

"we shall be the ornament of every drawing-room to which we are introduced," said joan. "i think we're worth polishing off handsomely, don't you, sis? have you noticed how awfully pretty we're getting?"

"now that is a thing," broke in miss bird, "that no well-brought-up girl ought to say of herself, joan."

"but, starling darling, it's true, and you can't deny it," replied joan. "we must tell the truth, mustn't we?"

"the new booking-clerk at the station casts admiring glances at us," said nancy. "at first it made us uncomfortable; we thought we must have smuts on our noses. but at last we tumbled to it. cicely, we are loved, not only for our worth, but our beauty."

"you are a couple of donkeys," said cicely, laughing. "well, i'm glad you're going to apply yourselves to learning, although it's a dreadful thing to be losing our dear old starling. kencote will be quite changed."

"there are many changes coming about at kencote," said nancy. "joan and i can feel them in the air. we'll let you know when there's anything more to tell you, cicely."

"thank you very much," said cicely. "i think i had better go downstairs now."

the twins went with her, and on the stairs cicely said, "i didn't like to say it before starling, but i think you're awfully lucky children, to be going to be taught things. i never was. i do hope you'll take advantage of it."

"oh, i do hope we shall," said joan. "it is such a chance for us. we feel that."

"deeply," acquiesced nancy. "if we don't we shall never forgive ourselves—never."