'Welcome!' and were met by a party on horseback waving their hats,
while a great hurrah burst out from the numbers who lined the street.
Mrs. Frost bowed her thanks and waved her hand. 'But oh!' she said,
almost sobbing, 'where am I? This is not Cheveleigh.'

Lord Ormersfield showed her a few old houses that they both
recognised, looking antiquated in the midst of a modern growth of
narrow, conceited new tenements. The shouting crowd had, to
Fitzjocelyn's eyes, more the aspect of a rabble than of a genuine
rejoicing peasantry. What men there were looked beer-attracted
rather than reputable, and the main body were whooping boys, women,
nurse-girls, and babies. The suspicion crossed him that it was a new
generation, without memories of forty years since, wondering rather
than welcoming, in spite of arches, bells, and shouts.

After another half-mile, a gate swung wide beneath another arch, all
over C. D., the F. studiously omitted; and the carriage wheeled in
amid a shower of tight little nosegays from a squadron of school-
children. They drove up the long approach, through fir plantations,
which drew from Mrs. Frost a cry of friendly recognition--for her
husband had planted them; but they had not taken kindly to the soil,
and fifty years had produced but a starveling growth. Beyond lay an
expanse of parched brown turf, here and there an enclosure of
unprosperous trees, and full in front stood the wide space of
stuccoed wall, with a great Gothic window full in the midst, and
battlements in the castellated style of the early years of the
nineteenth century.

No one spoke. After the first glance, Mrs. Frost shut her eyes to
restrain the hot tears that arose at the thought of the wintry