of hearing of the sentences beginning, "I am sure we shall always be
sensible," "Nothing could be kinder," which her guardian was pouring
out. She moved with Agnes to the door: the summer sky was deeply blue,
without a cloud, the fresh green branches of the trees stood up against
it as if bathed in light, the flower beds were glowing with gay
blossoms, Gerald and Jemmy were playing with Ranger under the verandah,
and the Church bells rang cheerfully for morning service, but alas! at
the gate was the carriage, Saunders sitting sobbing on the outside,
and David Chapple, Mr. Wortley's man, standing on one leg on the step
talking to her. Near at hand was the gardener from the Manor House,
waiting with his hands full of Miss Arundel's favourite flowers, and
there stood old Betty Lapthorn and her grandchild, Gerald's nurse who
had married, and the old man to whom the children had so often carried
the remains of their dinner; all the school children too, and Grace in
the middle of them, waiting for the last view of Miss Arundel and little
Sir Gerald.

Mr. Lyddell finished his acknowledgments, and Marian and her brother
received an embrace and good-bye from their friends, David jumped down
and shut the door, Saunders sobbed aloud, there was another good-bye
from each of the Wortleys, and a hearty response from Gerald, Mr.
Lyddell called out, "All right," and away they went.

On went the carriage, past the Church, with its open door and pealing
bell, the rocky steps up to the Manor House, nestled in the shrubs, the
well known trees, the herds of longhorned, red cattle, the grey stone
cottages, and the women and tiny children at the doors, the ford through
the sparkling shallow brook, the hill with the great limestone quarry,
the kiln so like a castle, the river and its bridge of one narrow, high
pitched, ivy grown arch, the great rod rock, remembered as having been