and perhaps he was right. Six miles from the nearest station, the great
house stands self-sufficient, self-contained. The moat, now dry and
cultivated, is still traceable, and requires bridging in two places.
Surrounded by vast park-like meadowland, where huge trees guard against
cutting wind or prying modern journalistic instinct, the house is only
approached by a private road.

Inside the gates of this road there is something ancient and feudal in
the very scent of the air. The tones of the big bell striking the hour
over the wide portico die away over the lands that still belong to
Stagholme, despite the vicissitudes through which all ancient families
run.

Jem, however, whose childhood and youth had been passed amidst companions
with names as good as his, had learnt long ago to keep his pride to
himself. He was Jem Agar, and the family name seemed somehow to belong
exclusively to his father still, although that thorough old sportsman had
lain for three years and more beneath the quiet turf of the little
churchyard within his own park gates.

As he pulled up at the door this was thrown open, and within its frame of
light he saw the gracious form of his stepmother waiting to welcome him.
Behind her, in the shadow, and amidst the decoration of staghorns,
ancient pike and hanger, loomed a tall dark figure startlingly in keeping
with the semi-monastic architecture of the house. This was Sister
Cecilia. She was always thus--behind Mrs. Agar, with clasped hands and a
vaguely approving smile, as if Mrs. Agar conferred a benefit upon
suffering humanity by the mere act of existing.

A slightly bored expression came into Jem's patient eyes. It was not that