The mansion itself, situated on a green eminence in the midst of the well-treed old park, was one of the stately homes of England; and though antique enough to be almost grim--as if holding in its dark interior the secrets of a gloomy or mayhap tragic past--it was cheerful enough in summer or winter; and from its big lodge-gates, all along its gravelled avenues, the wheel-marks bore evidence that Manby Hall was by no means deserted nor the squire very much of a recluse. The gardens of this mansion were large enough to lose one's self in, silent save for the song of birds, with broad green walks, with bush and tree and flower, and fountains playing in the centre of ponds only and solely for the sake of the waterfowl or the gold and silver fish that hid themselves from the sunshine beneath the green, shimmering leaves of lordly floating lilies, orange and white. A rural paradise was Manby Hall. Acres of glass too, a regiment of semi-silent gardeners, and a mileage of strong old walls around that were gay in springtime and summer with creeping, climbing, trailing flowers of every shape and shade. If there was a single grim room in all this abode it was the library, where from tawny, leather-bound shelves the mighty tomes of authors long dead and gone frowned down on one, as one entered through the heavily draped doorways. Whisper it! But Antony was really irreverent enough to say one day to a friend of his that this solemn and classic library was a jolly good billiard-room spoiled. Anyhow, it was in this room that Frank Antony found himself one morning. He had been summoned hither by his father. The squire was verging on fifty, healthy and hard in face, handsome rather, with hair fast ripening into gray. 'Ha, Frank, my boy! come forward. You may be seated.' 'Rather stand, dad. Guess it's nothing too pleasant.' 'Well, I sent for you, Frank'---- 'And I'm here, dad.' 'Let me see now. You're eighteen, aren't you?' 'I suppose so, sir; but--you ought to know,' replied Antony archly. 'I? What on earth have I to do with it? At least, I am too busy a man to remember the ages of all my children. Your mother, now, might; but then your mother is a woman--a woman, Frank.' 'I could have guessed as much, dad. But as for "all" your children, father, why, there are only Aggie and I. That comprises the whole lot of us; not very tiresome to count, I reckon.' 'There! don't be quizzical, boy. I sent for you--er--I sent for you to--to'---- 'Yes, father, sent for me to--to'---- 'I wish you to choose a career, you young dog. Don't stand there and to--to at me, else I'll--I don't know what I mightn't do. But stand down, sir--I mean, sit down--and you won't look so precious like a poacher.' Antony obeyed.