ough he confessed it to no one, not even to Aymer, felt a
little cut off from this pleasant clan, who held the same traditions,
the same experiences, and who went through the same training at their
various schools, who led indeed a life that differed essentially from
Christopher.

He was never conscious of any lack of company. The Astons, old and
young, were companions who answered to every need of his energetic
mind. He made giant strides in his studies in these days and passed
beyond the average into the class of those of real ability. All his
well-earned holidays were spent at Marden, where there was always
Patricia as a most admirable playfellow.

It was when Christopher was a little over fifteen and Patricia about
the same age that the first definite result of their companionship
came about.

On the other side of the lake at Marden Court the high road, sunk
between a low wall on one side and the upsloping land on the other,
ran directly eastward and westward, joining eventually a second Great
Road of historic importance to Christopher Aston. The rough ground
beyond the road was covered with low scrub, and dwarf twisted
hawthorns, with a plentiful show of molehills. Here and there were
groups of Scotch firs, and the crest of the hill was wooded with oaks
and beeches and a fringe of larches, with here and there a silvery
black poplar.

Christopher and Patricia were fond of this rough land that lay beyond
the actual park. In early days it had made a glorious stage for
"desert islanders," with the isle-studded lake to bound it, whose
further shore for the nonce melted into vague mistiness. Later on,
when desert islands were out of fashion, it was still good ground to
explore, and through the woods away over the hill one came to a
delectable wide-spread country, where uncultivated down mingled with
cornfields and stretches of clover, a country bounded by long,
spacious curving lines of hill and dale, tree-capped ridges and bare
contours, with here and there the gash of a chalk pit gleaming
white.

Just at a point where a stretch of down-land ran into a little copse,
was a small barrow. A round green mound, memento of a forgotten
history that was real and visible enough in its own day, as real as
the two children of "the Now," with whom the spot was a favourite
camping ground.

Patricia, who knew all about barrows from Nevil, used to invent
wonderful stories of this one, to which Christopher lent a critical
att