some ten minutes after time in the antler-hung hall
of the Abbey House, he found his father standing, watch in hand,
exactly under the big clock, as though he was determined to make a
note by double entry of every passing second.

"When I asked you to walk with me this afternoon, Philip, I, if my
memory does not deceive me, was careful to say that I had no wish to
interfere with any prior engagement. I was aware how little interest,
compared to your cousin George, you take in the estate, and I had no
wish to impose an uncongenial task. But, as you kindly volunteered to
accompany me, I regret that you did not find it convenient to be
punctual to the time you fixed. I have now waited for you for
seventeen minutes, and let me tell you that at my time of life I
cannot afford to lose seventeen minutes. May I ask what has delayed
you?"

This long speech had given Philip the opportunity of recovering the
breath that he had lost in running home. He replied promptly--

"I have been lunching with Miss Lee."

"Oh, indeed, then I no longer wonder that you kept me waiting, and I
must say that in this particular I commend your taste. Miss Lee is a
young lady of good family, good manners, and good means. If her estate
went with this property it would complete as pretty a five thousand
acres of mixed soil as there is in the county. Those are beautiful old
meadows of hers, beautiful. Perhaps----" but here the old man checked
himself.

On leaving the house they had passed together down a walk called the
tunnel walk, on account of the arching boughs of the lime-trees that
interlaced themselves overhead. At the end of this avenue, and on the
borders of the lake, there stood an enormous but still growing oak,
known as Caresfoot's Staff. It was the old squire's favourite tree,
and the best topped piece of timber for many miles round.

"I wonder," said Philip, by way of making a little pleasant
conversation, "why that tree was called Caresfoot's Staff."

"Your ignorance astonishes me, Philip, but I suppose that there are
some people who can live for years in a place and yet imbibe nothing
of its traditions. Perhaps you know that the monks were driven out of
these ruins by Henry VIII. Well, on the spot where that tree now
stands there grew a still greater oak, a giant tree, its trunk
measured sixteen loads of timber; which had, as tradition said, been
planted by the first prior of the Abbey when England was still Saxon.
The night the