filled. Mary Gifford
gained strength daily, and very soon she was able to walk in the pleasance
by Hillside Manor, which George had laid out for Lucy, in those long
waiting days when he gathered together all that he thought would please her
in the 'lady's chamber' he had made ready for her, long before his dream of
seeing her in it was realised.

Gradually Mary was able to extend her walks, and it was on one evening in
July that she told Lucy she should like to walk down to Ford Manor.

Lucy remonstrated, and said she feared if she allowed her to go so far
Humphrey and Ambrose, who had gone away to London for a few days, would be
displeased with her for allowing it.

'I would fain go there with you and see Ned and old Jenkins. The newcomers
have kept on their services, I hope?'

'Yes, all things are the same, except that the poor old stepmother and her
ill-conditioned husband have left it, and are living in Tunbridge. He
preaches and prays, and spends her savings, and, let us hope, he is
content. The dear old place was going to wrack and ruin, so Sir Robert's
orders came that they were to quit.'

'Poor old place! To think,' Lucy said, 'that I could ever feel an affection
for it, but it is so nevertheless.'

So, in the golden light of sunset, the two sisters stood by the old thorn
tree on the bit of ground in front of Ford Manor once more.

Ned and Jenkyns had bidden them welcome, and, by the permission of the
present owners of the farm, they had gone through the house, now much
improved by needful repairs and better furnishing. But, whatever changes
there were in the house and its inhabitants, the smiling landscape
stretched out before the two sisters as they stood by the crooked back of
the old thorn tree was the same. The woodlands, in the glory of the summer
prime, clothed the uplands; the tower of the church, the stately walls of
the Castle of Penshurst, the home of the noble race of Sidney, stood out
amidst the wealth of foliage of encircling trees as in years gone by. The
meadows were sloping down to the village, where the red roofs of the
cottages clustered, and the spiral columns of thin blue smoke showed where
busy housewives were preparing the evening meal at the wood fire kindled on
the open hearth. The rooks were flying homewards with their monotonous
caw. From a copse, just below Ford Manor, the ring-doves were repeating the
old, old song of love. As Mary Gifford stood with her face turned towards
th