ime, except an old man and his wife,
who pottered about the place, and just contrived to keep the buildings
from tumbling into ruin. The shutters were always closed, as though the
mansion were in a state of chronic mourning for a race of proprietors
now become extinct, except that now and then, in summer-time, a
niggardly amount of fresh air and sunshine was allowed to find its way
into the interior of the dwelling.

As for the grounds and the park, they were _overlooked_ in more senses
than one by a labourer and his sons, who lived in a hamlet called
Bridgepath, which was situated on the estate, about a mile from the
house, in the rear, and contained some five hundred people. John Willis
and his sons were paid by somebody to look after the gardens and drives;
and as they got their money regularly, and no one ever came to inspect
their work, they just gave a turn at the old place now and then at odd
times, and neither asked questions nor answered any, and allowed the
grass and weeds to have their own way, till the whole domain became
little better than an unsightly wilderness. Everybody said it was a
shame, but as no one had a right to interfere, the broad, white front of
Park House continued to look across the public road to Franchope through
its surroundings of noble trees, with a sort of pensive dignity, its
walls being more or less discoloured and scarred, while creepers
straggled across the windows, looking like so many wrinkles indicative
of decrepitude and decay.

But why did no one purchase it? Simply because its present owner, who
was abroad somewhere, had no intention of selling it. At last, however,
a change had come. Riverton Park was to be tenanted again. But by
whom? Not by its former occupier; that was ascertained beyond doubt by
those who had sufficient leisure and benevolence to find out other
people's business for the gratification of the general public. It was
not so clear who was to be the new-comer. Some said a retired
tradesman; others, a foreign princess; others, the proprietor of a
private lunatic asylum. These and other rumours were afloat, but none
of them came to an anchor.

It was on a quiet summer's evening in July that Mary Stansfield was
walking leisurely homeward along the highroad which passed through the
Riverton estate and skirted the park. Miss Stansfield was the orphan
child of an officer who had perished, with his wife and other children,
in the Indian Mutiny. She ha