f feminine
sympathy; Philip looked on with the aloof superiority of the male.

The service began, and Annie listened to the words she had longed to
hear for twelve years past, the words that would make her mistress of
Cloom Manor. Morality meant as little to her as to any of the
half-savage folk of the remote West in the middle of the nineteenth
century, when the post of squire's mistress was merely considered less
fortunate than that of squire's wife; but socially Annie was
gaining--for she would become an eligible widow-woman.

With fumbling hands Ruan slipped his signet-ring on the ugly, work-worn
finger of the woman who was at last his wife.

* * * * *

That night Annie gave birth to the latest heir of the house of Ruan, and
in the grey of the dawning, when, with the aid of parson and lawyer, the
Squire had arranged all his temporal affairs in a manner to ensure as
much ill-will as possible in the family he was leaving behind him, he
was gathered to his fathers.

In the big kitchen, where the mice skittered nervously over the last
night's supper-table, and the tall clock chuckled before it struck each
hour, huddled a group of frightened children. The eldest was angry as
well, for, while the younger boys and the little girl were but dimly
aware that all their world was tumbling about their ears, he, with the
precocious knowledge of the ten-year old country lad, knew more nearly
how the crying babe was ousting him from his previous height. Resentful,
sleepy, fearful, and exiled from the rooms of birth and death they
crouched together and watched the paling sky, their own quarrels
forgotten in their common discomfort; and overhead the cries of the
new-born child pierced the air of the new day.

CHAPTER I

HIGH ADVENTURES IN A FARMYARD

A bullet-headed little boy of eight sat astride upon a farmyard gate,
whistling and beating time with a hazel-switch. He had fastened his belt
round the gate-post and was using it as a bridle, his bare knees gripped
the wooden bar under him, and his little brass-tipped heels flashed in
the sun like spurs. It was Saturday morning, which meant no lessons with
Parson Boase at the vicarage, and a fine day in late August, which meant
escape from the roof of Cloom and the tongue and hand of its mistress.
Ishmael Ruan, his head stuffed with the myths and histories with which
the Parson was preparing him for St. Renny Grammar School, felt in the
m