rd, though addressing her remarks apparently to no
one in particular, and with her dainty head tilted in the air.

Her companion turned to her at once. 'What said the Priest?' he
enquired quickly.

'The Priest said, "Never was such a plant bred in England before!"
What his words meant I know not--unless he was thinking of the proverb
of certain plants that grow apace,' she added maliciously, looking up
with a gleam of fun at the tall figure beside her. 'And my father
said....'

Colonel Purefoy's remark was not destined to be revealed, for they had
reached the tall gateway by this time. Old Thomas, seeing his little
mistress approaching, accompanied only by the Weaver's son, and with
Snowball obviously damaged, had hobbled to meet them in spite of his
rheumatics. Close at hand was Cecily, brimful of excitement at the
sight of her fairy princess actually stopping at their own cottage
door. The tall youth handed the pony's bridle to the old man, and was
departing with evident relief, when a clear, imperious voice stopped
him--

'Good-bye and good-day to you, Weaver's son, and thanks for your aid,'
said Jocosa, like a queen dismissing a subject.

The tall figure looked down upon the patronizing little lady, as if
from a remote height. 'Mayest thou verily fare well,' he said, almost
with solemnity, and then, without removing his hat or making any
gesture of respect, he turned abruptly and was gone.

'A strange boy,' Joyce said to herself a few minutes later as she
stood on the stone bridge that crossed the moat in front of the Manor
House. 'I did not like him; in fact I rather disliked him--but I
should like to see him again and find out what he meant by his
"steeple-house" and "verily."'

Cecily, left behind at the Lodge, very happy because her fairy
princess had actually thrown her a smile as she passed, was still
following the distant figure on the bridge with wistful eyes, as Joyce
busily searched her pockets for a few stray crumbs with which to feed
the swans in the moat. The scarlet riding-dress, glossy tippet, and
scarlet feather in the big brown hat were all faithfully reflected in
the clear water below, except where the swans interrupted the vivid
picture with dazzling snowy curves and orange webbed feet.

More critical eyes than Cecily's were also watching Joyce. High up on
the terrace, where a few late roses and asters were still in bloom,
two figures were leaning over the stone parapet, looking down ove