remaining till the last, and closing the door. On his way home, carrying
the well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the two men who
were mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the hedge, as if
they had been on the alert all the time.

'You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?'

'All right--never mind,' he answered through the hedge. 'I did not
require you after all.'



CHAPTER III


At a manor not far away there lived a queer and primitive couple who had
lately been blessed with a son and heir. The christening took place
during the week under notice, and this had been followed by a feast to
the parishioners. Christine's father, one of the same generation and
kind, had been asked to drive over and assist in the entertainment, and
Christine, as a matter of course, accompanied him.

When they reached Athelhall, as the house was called, they found the
usually quiet nook a lively spectacle. Tables had been spread in the
apartment which lent its name to the whole building--the hall
proper--covered with a fine open-timbered roof, whose braces, purlins,
and rafters made a brown thicket of oak overhead. Here tenantry of all
ages sat with their wives and families, and the servants were assisted in
their ministrations by the sons and daughters of the owner's friends and
neighbours. Christine lent a hand among the rest.