er brother said often enough, of an
angel. John Everard was big and broad, brown-haired, ruddy complexioned.
He regarded every goose as a swan, and had unlimited belief in his land,
his sister, and the future. There was one other occupant of Buddesby, a
slight slender, dark-haired girl, with a thin, olive face, a pair of
blazing black eyes, and a vividly red-lipped mouth.

Eight years ago Matthew Everard had brought her home after a brief
visit to London. He had handed her over to eighteen-year-old Constance.

"Look after the little one, Connie," he had said. "There's not a soul in
the world who wants her, poor little lass. Her father's been dead years;
her mother died--last week." He paused. "I knew them both." That was all
the information he had ever given, so Ellice Brand had come to Buddesby,
one more mouth to feed, one more pair of feet to find shoes for.

She had many faults; she was passionate and wilful, defiant and
impatient of even Connie's gentle authority. But there was one who could
quell her most violent outburst with a word--one who had but to look at
her to bring her to her sane senses, one whom she would, dog-like, have
followed to the end of the world, from whom she would have accepted
blows and kicks and curses without a murmur, only that Johnny Everard
was not in the habit of bestowing blows and curses on young ladies.

Constance was twenty-six, John, the master of Buddesby, was a year
younger, and Ellice was eighteen, her slender body as yet childish and
unformed, her gipsy-like face a little too thin. But there was beauty
there, wonderful and startling beauty that would one day blossom forth.
It was in the bud as yet, but the bud was near to opening.

They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at
Buddesby. It was eight o'clock, and John had been afield for a couple of
hours and had come back with his appetite sharp set.

They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely
duties since soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing
of the breakfast-bell.

"A letter from Helen," Constance said.

"Helen? Oh, she's got to Starden then?" said John.

"And wants us to come over, dear."

"Of course! We'll go over next week some time. I'm busy now with--"

"It wouldn't be kind not to go at once."

"Who is Helen?" demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and
then at John. "Who is she?" A tinge of colour came into her cheeks.

Connie sa