could not believe John Saltram
capable of baseness, or even coldness, towards him.

He was at the end of his journey by this time. The Grange stood in front
of him--a great rambling building, with many gables, gray lichen-grown
walls, and quaint old diamond-paned casements in the upper stories.
Below, the windows were larger, and had an Elizabethan look, with patches
of stained glass here and there. The house stood back from the road, with
a spacious old-fashioned garden before it; a garden with flower-beds of a
Dutch design, sheltered from adverse winds by dense hedges of yew and
holly; a pleasant old garden enough, one could fancy, in summer weather.
The flower-beds were for the most part empty now, and the only flowers to
be seen were pale faded-looking chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daises. The
garden was surrounded by a high wall, and Gilbert contemplated it first
through the rusty scroll-work of a tall iron gate, surmounted by the arms
and monogram of the original owner. On one side of the house there was a
vast pile of building, comprising stables and coach-houses, barns and
granaries, arranged in a quadrangle. The gate leading into this
quadrangle was open, and Gilbert saw the cattle standing knee-deep in a
straw-yard.

He rang a bell, which had a hoarse rusty sound, as if it had not been
rung very often of late; and after he had waited for some minutes, and
rung a second time, a countrified-looking woman emerged from the house,
and came slowly along the wide moss-grown gravel-walk towards him. She
stared at him with the broad open stare of rusticity, and did not make
any attempt to open the gate, but stood with a great key in her hand,
waiting for Gilbert to speak.

"This is Sir David Forster's house, I believe," he said.

"Yes, sir, it be; but Sir David doesn't live here."

"I know that. You have some lodgers here--a lady and gentleman called
Holbrook."

He plunged at once at this assertion, as the easiest way of arriving at
the truth. He had a conviction that this solitary farm-house was the
place to which his unknown rival had brought Marian.

"Yes, sir," the woman answered, still staring at him in her Blow stupid
way. "Mrs. Holbrook is here, but Mr. Holbrook is away up in London. Did
you wish to see the lady?"

Gilbert's heart gave a great throb. She was here, close to him! In the
next minute he would be face to face with her, with that one woman whom
he loved, and must continue to love, until the