is time attained such height and so bore himself that there were but
few inches between his noble kinsman and himself, though the years
between them were so many, and my Lord Dunstanwolde was of no mean
stature.

Outside a heavy rain fell, deluging the earth and drenching such grass
as the winter had left, covering with its faded tussocks the sweep of
the park lands. The sky was heavy with leaden clouds from which the
water fell in sweeping dashes. Having walked for some time, the two
stopped before the wide bay window at the east end of the Long Gallery
and watched the deluge for a space, marking how the drops splashed upon
the terrace, how the birds flew before it, and how the deer huddled
together under the stripped trees as if glad of the small shelter their
trunks and bare branches could afford.

"Such a day brings back to a man the gloomiest things he knows," said
Lord Dunstanwolde after a few moments' silent gazing upon the scene. "I
no sooner paused here to look forth at the greyness than there came
back to me a hard tale I heard before I left Gloucestershire. 'Twas
another tale of Wildairs, Gerald."

"Of Sir Jeoffry?" said Roxholm, with interest. It had happened that
some time before Lord Dunstanwolde had heard of the impression made
upon him by the story of the poor lady and her brutal lord and master.
More than once they had spoken together of Wildairs Hall, and those who
rioted, and those who suffered, in it, and Roxholm had learned that,
year by year the Gloucestershire baronet's living had grown wilder and
more dissolute, until his mad follies had cut him off from the
companionship of all reputable persons, and he spent his days in brutal
sports, drink, and rough entertainment with a dozen men as little
respected as himself. His money he had squandered and gambled away at
dice, his estate fell to greater ruin every year, and no heir had come
to him, his poor helpmeet having at length given him eight daughters,
but two of whom had lived. His rage at this had increased even beyond
its first fury as he realised that each new blunder of her ladyship was
a new jest for the county. So it was that the boy turned towards his
kinsman with interest, for in some manner the mishaps of this wretched
family always moved him.

"Of Sir Jeoffry?" he said.

"Of Sir Jeoffry," my Lord Dunstanwolde answered; "but not so much of
himself as of his poor lady. At last she is dead."

"Dead!" Roxholm exclaimed. "Dead!" and hi