intruder. Many of the casements stood open, and there was the scent of
flowers in the silent old rooms, where all was neat and prim, albeit a
little faded and gray.

Ida loved to explore the library, where the books were for the most part
quaint and old, original editions of seventeenth and eighteenth century
books, in sober, substantial bindings. It was pleasant to take out a
volume of one of the old poets, or the eighteenth century essayists, and
to read a few stanzas, or a paper of Addison's or Steele's, standing by
the open window in the air and sunlight.

The rooms in which she roamed at will were the public apartments of the
Abbey, and, although beautiful in her eyes, they had the stiffness and
solemnity of rooms which are not for the common uses of daily life.

But on one occasion Mrs. Mawley, the housekeeper, in a particularly
communicative mood, showed her the suite of rooms in which Mr. Wendover
lived when he was alone; and here, in the study where he read, and wrote,
and smoked, and brooded in the long quiet days, she saw those personal
belongings which gave at least some clue to the character of the man.
Here, on shelves which lined the room from floor to ceiling, she saw the
books which Brian Wendover had collected for his own especial pleasure,
and the neatness of their arrangement and classification told her that
the master of Wendover Abbey was a man of calm temper and orderly habits.

'You'll never see a book out of place when he leaves the room,' said Mrs.
Mawley. 'I've seen him take down fifty volumes of a morning, when he's at
his studies. I've seen the table covered with books, and books piled up
on the carpet at each side of his chair, but they'd all be back on their
shelves, as neat as a new pin, when I went to tidy up the room after him.