the lofty ceiling. On the fourth side of the room, whither the gallery
did not extend, three tall narrow windows overlooked the drive. The
furniture was scanty and severely Jacobean, having for more than two
hundred years remained practically intact; a ponderous writing table, a
couple of long low cabinets, and half a dozen cavernous armchairs
recushioned to suit modern requirements of ease. Some fine old bronzes
stood against the panelled walls. There was about the room a settled
peacefulness. The old furniture had a stately air of permanence. The
polished panels, and, above, the orderly ranks of ancient books
suggested durability; they remained--while generations of men came and
passed, transient figures reflected in the shining oak, handling for a
few brief years the printed treasures that would still be read centuries
after they had returned to their dust.

The spirit of the house seemed embodied in this big silent room that was
spacious and yet intimate, formal and yet friendly.

It was Miss Craven's favourite retreat. The atmosphere was sympathetic.
Here she seemed more particularly in touch with the subtle influence of
family that seemed to pervade the whole house. In most of the rooms it
was perceptible, but in the library it was forceful.

The house and the family--they were bound up inseparably.

For hundreds of years, in an unbroken line, from father to son ... from
father to son.... Miss Craven sat bolt upright to the sound of an
unmistakable sob. She looked with amazement at two tears blistering the
page of the open book on her knee. She had not knowingly cried since
childhood. It was a good thing that she was alone she thought, with a
startled glance round the empty room. She would have to keep a firmer