dark, aquiline features were vaguely reminiscent.

"Hum!" said the Major, rubbing his chin and staring, whereat the
prisoner, scowling sullenly, turned away.

"Ha!" said the Major. "Sirrah, 'tis a fair day for walking I think,
therefore, an you be so minded--walk!"

"D'ye mean you'll let me--go?" demanded the prisoner.

"Aye!"

"Free?"

"There's the door!"

The prisoner sprang to his feet, brushed the hay from his rough and
stained garments, glanced from his deliverer to the glory of the
morning and stepped out into the sunlight.

"You were wiser to avoid Sir Oliver Rington's neighbourhood, and here's
somewhat to aid you on your way."

So saying, the Major strode off and left the poacher staring down at
the gold coins in his palm.

The Major wandered thoughtfully along box-bordered paths, past marble
fauns and nymphs; between hedges of clipped yew and so to the
rose-garden, ablaze with colour and fragrant with bloom. In the midst
was a time-worn sundial set about with marble seats and here the Major
leaned to muse awhile and so came upon a quaint-lettered posy graven
upon the dial which ran as follows:

"Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy:
Age and Youth together is but folly."

"Hum!" said the Major and sighed, and sighing, turned away, limping
more than usual, for his meditations were profound. Thus, deep in
thought he came back to the isolated building, locked it up again, and
wended his way back to the house.

Having replaced the key he sat himself down in his study and tucking up
his ruffles, fell to work on his History of Fortification, though, to
be sure, his pen was frequently idle and once he opened a drawer to
stare down at a rapidly fading rose.

Gradually the great house about him awoke to life and morning bustle;
light feet tripped to and fro, maids' voices chattered and sang
merrily, dusters flicked, mops twirled and Mrs. Agatha admonished,
while, from the kitchens afar came the faint but delectable rattle of
crockery while the Major drove parallels, constructed trenches and
covered ways and dreamed of the Lady Betty Carlyon, of her eyes, her
hair, the dimple in her wilful chin and of all her alluring witchery.
And bethinking him of her warm, soft daintiness, as when she had leaned
in his clasp for that much-remembered moment, he almost thought to
catch again the faint, sweet fragrance of her.

Moved by a sudden impulse he rose, and crossing to a mirror, stood to
examine himsel