And now they had gained the hill, a sudden colour flushed over Godolphin's
cheek.

"Surely," said he, "I remember this view. Yonder valley! This is not the
road to Wendover Castle; this--my father's home!--the same, and not the
same!"

Yes! Below, basking in the western light, lay the cottage in which
Godolphin's childhood had been passed. There was the stream rippling
merrily; there the broken and fern-clad turf, with "its old hereditary
trees;" but the ruins!--the shattered arch, the mouldering tower, were
left indeed--but new arches, new turrets had arisen, and so dexterously
blended with the whole that Godolphin might have fancied the hall of his
forefathers restored--not indeed in the same vast proportions and cumbrous
grandeur as of old, but still alike in shape and outline, and such even in
size as would have contented the proud heart of its last owner.
Godolphin's eyes turned inquiringly to Constance.

"It should have been more consistent with its ancient dimensions," said
she; "but then it would have taken half our lives to have built it."

"But this must have been the work of years."

"It was."

"And your work, Constance?"

"For you."

"And it was for this that you hesitated when I asked you to consent to