e list of new experiments at Pendlemere, but
there was a general consensus of opinion that Loveday held the palm in
the matter of looks. She was a fair, slender girl, with delicate
features, a clear complexion, and a quantity of long flaxen hair. She
spoke prettily, but without affectation, and always gave an impression
of great refinement. The wistful look that sometimes shaded her blue
eyes was, on the whole, attractive.

"She's like a picture I once saw of Eve just turned out of Paradise,"
commented Diana, sitting with Wendy and Tattie in the window-seat on the
stairs.

"Not half a bad shot," said Wendy. "In fact, it just about hits the
mark. In a way, Loveday _is_ turned out of Paradise. That's to say, I
suppose, if her grandfather hadn't gambled, the Abbey would have
belonged to her."

"What Abbey?"

"Why, this, of course, stupid!"

"Do you mean to say Loveday's folks used to _own_ this place?"

"They did. Owned it for hundreds of years. They were an old Border
family, and mixed up with the rebellion of 1745, and all sorts of
interesting things. Loveday's grandfather was the regular old-fashioned
sporting kind of squire you read about in books. He gambled the whole
property away. I suppose it used to be a fine place in his day. I've
heard he kept eight hunters, and always had the house full of guests
while his money lasted. Then there was a grand smash up, and everything
had to be sold--house, horses, furniture, and all. He went abroad and
died of a broken heart--never smiled again, and all that sort of thing,
you know."

"How fearfully romantic!" gasped Diana. "Of course it was his own fault
for gambling, but still one feels sorry for him. Did Loveday live here
too when she was little?"

Wendy shook her head.

"I shouldn't think so. I believe it happened ever such a long time ago;
before she was born, even."

"Couldn't her father get it back?"

"I suppose not. Besides, he's dead too. Loveday is an orphan. She's
neither father nor mother."

"Where does she live, then, when she's at home?"

"With an uncle and aunt--her mother's relations. But she never talks
very much about them, so we fancy they're not particularly nice to her.
She has no brothers or sisters. I think she feels lonely, if you ask my
opinion, but she's too proud to say so."

"And Pendlemere ought to be hers! How romantic!" repeated Diana. "I
wanted to stay in a real old-fashioned mediaeval British house, and here
I'm plumped into