ristrams, you know, and not Fitzhuberts, or
Leighs, or Merrions----"

"Merrion?"

"My great-great--I forget how many greats--grandfather was a Merrion
and----"

"Built this house?"

"Oh, no--a house where this stands. The old house was burnt down in
'95."

"As recently as that?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"1795," he explained, "and this house was run up then."

Mina felt that there was here a touch of pride; with a more complete
mastery of idiomatic English she might have called it "swagger." Nothing
counted that was less than a century old, it seemed, and he spoke of a
house of a hundred years' standing as she might of a wooden shanty.
Decidedly he was conscious of his position--over-conscious.

"I'm glad it was run up in time for us to take it," she said, thinking
she would try the effect of a little chaff.

The effect was nothing; Harry Tristram took no notice of the remark.

"I see," he observed, "from your calling me Fitzhubert that you've been
looking up our recent history."

"Oh, just what there is in the 'Peerage.'" Her look was mischievous now,
but she restrained herself from any hint of special knowledge. "I'll
tell you as much of ours some day."

She broke into a laugh, and then, carried away by the beauty of the
scene, the river and the stately peaceful old house by it, she stretched
out her hands toward Blent Hall, exclaiming:

"But we haven't anything like that in our history!"

He turned to look with her, and stood in silence for a minute or two.
Then he spoke softly.

"Yes, I love it," he said.

She glanced at him; his eyes were tender. Turning, he saw her glance. In
a moment he seemed to veil his eyes and to try to excuse the sentimental
tone of his remark by a matter-of-fact comment:

"But of course a man comes to like a place when he's been accustomed to
think of it as his home for all his life past and to come."

"What would you do if you lost it?" she asked.

"I've no intention of losing it," he answered, laughing, but looking
again from her and toward his home. "We've had it six hundred years; we
shan't lose it now, I think."

"No, I suppose not." He was holding out his hand. "Good-by, Mr Tristram.
May I come and thank your mother?"

"Oh, but she'll come here, if she's well enough."

"I'll save her the journey up the hill."

He bowed in courteous acceptance of her offer as he shook hands.

"You see the foot-bridge over the river there? There's a gate at each
end, bu