ether in the world, and it had ever been one of the
rules by which Miss Thorne had regulated her conduct through life to
say nothing that could provoke her brother. She had often had to
suffer from his indifference to time-honoured British customs, but
she had always suffered in silence. It was part of her creed that
the head of the family should never be upbraided in his own house,
and Miss Thorne had lived up to her creed. Now, however, she was
greatly tried. The colour mounted to her ancient cheek, and the
fire blazed in her still bright eyes; but yet she said nothing. She
resolved that, at any rate, to him nothing more should be said about
the quintain that day.

She sipped her tea in silent sorrow and thought with painful
regret of the glorious days when her great ancestor Ealfried had
successfully held Ullathorne against a Norman invader. There was no
such spirit now left in her family except that small useless spark
which burnt in her own bosom. And she herself, was not she at this
moment intent on entertaining a descendant of those very Normans,
a vain proud countess with a Frenchified name who would only think
that she graced Ullathorne too highly by entering its portals? Was it
likely that an Honourable John, the son of an Earl De Courcy, should
ride at a quintain in company with Saxon yeomen? And why should
she expect her brother to do that which her brother's guests would
decline to do?

Some dim faint idea of the impracticability of her own views flitted
across her brain. Perhaps it was necessary that races doomed to live
on the same soil should give way to each other and adopt each other's
pursuits. Perhaps it was impossible that after more than five
centuries of close intercourse, Normans should remain Normans, and
Saxons, Saxons. Perhaps, after all, her neighbours were wiser than
herself. Such ideas did occasionally present themselves to Miss
Thorne's mind and make her sad enough. But it never occurred to
her that her favourite quintain was but a modern copy of a Norman
knight's amusement, an adaptation of the noble tourney to the tastes
and habits of the Saxon yeomen. Of this she was ignorant, and it
would have been cruelty to instruct her.

When Mr. Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself of his
contemptuous expression. By him also it was recognized as a binding
law that every whim of his sister was to be respected. He was not
perhaps so firm in his observances to her as she was in hers