villadom more ornate, more costly, with gardens to be measured in
acres--or nearly. This was Hinton Avenue (Hinton because it was the
maiden name of the builder's wife; Avenue because avenue is genteel).
Here Mary dwelt, but by good luck her predecessor, Dr. Christian Evans,
had seized upon a surviving old cottage at the end of the avenue, and,
indeed, of Inkston village itself. Beyond it stretched meadows, while
the road, turning again, ran across an open heath, and pursued its way
to Sprotsfield, four miles distant, a place of greater size where all
amenities could be found.

It was along this road that the friends now walked, Mary setting a brisk
pace. "When once you've turned your back on the Avenue, it's heaps
better," she said. "Might be real country, looking this way, mightn't it?
Except the Naylors' place--Oh, and Tower Cottage--there are no houses
between this and Sprotsfield."

The wind blew shrewdly, with an occasional spatter of rain; the withered
bracken lay like a vast carpet of dull copper-color under the cloudy sky;
scattered fir-trees made fantastic shapes in the early gloom of a
December day. A somber scene, yet wanting only sunshine to make it flash
in a richness of color; even to-day its quiet and spaciousness, its
melancholy and monotony, seemed to bid a sympathetic and soothing welcome
to aching and fretted hearts.

"It really is rather nice out here," Cynthia admitted.

"I come almost every afternoon. Oh, I've plenty of time! My round in the
morning generally sees me through--except for emergencies, births and
deaths, and so on. You see, my predecessor, poor Christian Evans, never
had more than the leavings, and that's all I've got. I believe the real