uietly
but sternly.

Still Dora could not help saying, as soon as she was alone with her
sister, "I shall believe in the French measure. I like that slow, dull
man, and I am sure he is honest."

"Yes, dear, only pray don't say any more to Edmund, but let us get the
book-case placed as fast as we can, and let him forget all about it."

CHAPTER TWO.

THE LIE OF THE LAND.

"Thank you, pretty cow, that gave
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Every day and every night
Warm and fresh, and sweet and bright."
_J. Taylor_.

Darkness had descended before there had been time to do more than shake
into the downstair rooms and bedrooms and be refreshed with the evening
meal, but with morning began the survey of the new home.

The front part of the house had three living rooms, with large sash
windows, almost to the ground, shaded by the verandah. These were
drawing-room, dining-room, and study, the last taken out of the entry,
where was the staircase, and there were three similar rooms above.
These had been added by the late owner to the original farmhouse, with a
fine old-fashioned kitchen that sent Mary and Dora into greater raptures
than their cook. There were offices around, a cool dairy, where stood
great red glazed pans of delicious-looking cream and milk, and a clean
white wooden churn that Dora longed to handle. The farmhouse rooms were
between it and the new ones, and there were a good many rooms above, the
red-tiled roof rising much higher than that of the more modern part of
the house. There was a narrow paling in front, and then came the
farmyard, enclosed in barns, cow-houses and cart-sheds, and a cottage
where the bailiff, Master Pucklechurch, had taken up his abode, having
hitherto lived in the farmhouse. He was waiting to show Captain
Carbonel over the farm. He was a grizzled, stooping old fellow, with a
fine, handsome, sunburnt face; bright, shrewd, dark eyes looking out
between puckers, a short white smock-frock, and long gaiters. It was
not their notion of a bailiff but the lawyer, who was so chary of his
praise, had said that old Master Pucklechurch and his wife were
absolutely trustworthy. They had managed the farm in the interregnum,
and brought him weekly accounts in their heads, for neither could write,
with the most perfect regularity and minuteness. And his face did
indeed bespeak confidence in his honesty, as he touched his hat in
answer to the greeting.

The ladies, howe