Poor Priscilla went about her work, crying silently, and Robin
Clifford paced restlessly up and down the smooth grass in front of
the old house with Innocent's farewell letter in his hand, reading
it again and again. He had returned early from the market town
where he had stayed the night, eager to explain to her all the
details of the business he had gone through with the lawyer to
whom his Uncle Hugo had entrusted his affairs, and to tell her how
admirably everything had been arranged for the prosperous
continuance of Briar Farm on the old traditional methods of labour
by which it had always been worked to advantage. Hugo Jocelyn had
indeed shown plenty of sound wisdom and foresight in all his plans
save one--and that one was his fixed idea of Innocent's marriage
with his nephew. It had evidently never occurred to him that a
girl could have a will of her own in such a momentous affair--much
less that she could or would be so unwise as to refuse a good
husband and a settled home when both were at hand for her
acceptance. Robin himself, despite her rejection of him, had still
hoped and believed that when the first shock of his uncle's death
had lessened, he might by patience and unwearying tenderness move
her heart to softer yielding, and he had meant to plead his cause
with her for the sake of the famous old house itself, so that she
might become its mistress and help him to prove a worthy
descendant of its long line of owners. But now! All hope was at an
end--she had taken the law into her own hands and gone--no one
knew whither. Priscilla was the last who had seen her--Priscilla
could only explain, with many tears, that when she had gone to
call her to breakfast she had found her room vacant, her bed
unslept in, and the letter for Robin on the table--and that letter
disclosed little or nothing of her intentions.