arcely be like this?' said he,
looking round at the carved wainscot.

'Oh, no, this house is a curiosity. Part was built before 1500.'

'In the time of the Indians?' Then smiling, 'I had forgotten. It is
hard to realize that I am where I have so long wished to be. Am I
actually in a room 360 years old?'

'No; this room is less ancient. Here is the date, 1605, on the panel.'

'Then this is such a house as Milton might have grown up in. It looks on
the Thames?'

'How could you tell that?'

'My father had a map of London that I knew by heart, and after we came
under Temple Bar, I marked the bearings of the streets. Before that I
was not clear. Perhaps there have been changes since 1830, the date of
his map.'

Phoebe opened a map, and he eagerly traced his route, pronouncing the
names of the historical localities with a relish that made her almost
sorry for their present associations. She liked his looks. He seemed to
be about two or three and twenty, tall and well-made, with somewhat of
the bearing of his soldier-father, but broad-shouldered and athletic, as
though his strength had been exercised in actual bodily labour. His
clear, light hazel eye was candid and well opened, with that peculiar
prompt vigilance acquired by living in a wild country, both steady to
observe and keen to keep watch. The dark chestnut hair covered a rather
square brow, very fair, though the rest of the face was browned by sun
and weather; the nose was straight and sensible, the chin short and firm;
the lips, though somewhat compressed when shut, had a look of good-humour
and cheerful intelligence peculiarly pleasant to behold. Altogether, it
was a face that inspired trust.

Presently the entrance of the tea-things obliged the map to be cleared
away; and Phoebe, while measuring out the tea, said that she supposed
Miss Charlecote would soon come down.

'Then are not you a Charlecote?' he asked, with a tone of disappointment.

'Oh, no! I am Phoebe Fulmort. There is no Charlecote left but herself.'

'It was my mother's name; and mine, Humfrey Charlecote Randolf.
Sandbrook thought there was some connection between the families.'

Phoebe absolutely started, hurt for a moment that a stranger should
presume to claim a name of such associations; yet as she met the bright,
honest eyes, feeling glad that it should still be a living name, worthily
borne. 'It is an old family name at Hiltonbury, and one very much
honoured,' she s