She was so delighted with everything in the place, that Lionel was all the more grieved that the property would so soon pass out of his hands. It seemed such a great pity to have to give up the Abbey, where both he and his father had been born. There were so many tender memories and associations of his childhood connected with it, that it would be like renouncing part of his own personality. But when the Edict was proclaimed there would be no other alternative; and sell it he must. “I wish my father would take it over,” Patricia said eagerly, when they had discussed the question several times. “We can ask him to hold it in trust for us; some day we may be able to have it back again. Shall I write to him about it, Lionel?” “If you like, dear; but there is no immediate hurry. You are more hopeful than I am,” he added half sorrowfully. “Some day to me means no day.” Patricia looked up quickly and noticed the little furrow on his brow. “It is not like you to be despondent, Lal,” she said, with a touch of reproach. “You have worried too much, and eaten too little of late I think. I want you to promise me not to give another thought to the Jews whilst we are down here. Let us be happy as long as we can.” Had she been less unselfish, the girl would have been jealous of the subject which engrossed so much of her husband’s attention; but she was so anxious to be his helpmate as well as his wife, that she concentrated her own interest on the same question. She knew that when the call to action came he was the man of all men to be inspired with hope, and to press on towards the end he had in view. It was the forced inaction—the waiting for events—which proved such a strain to his mental system, and it was for this reason that she sought to divert his thoughts elsewhere. She encouraged him to go out as much as possible, and scoured the surrounding country with him in his motor. There were also his numerous cottages to be inspected and his favourite tenants to be visited, for Montella was not only landlord, but friend. It was while they were on their peregrinations through the village that they came across one Anne Whiteside, who had once been Lionel’s nurse. They happened to meet her just outside her own dwelling, and she insisted on their entering to partake of tea. The Montellas, nothing loath, stepped into her little parlour, and settled themselves comfortably on the stiff horse-hair sofa. It was a pleasant little room in spite of its plainness, and everything in it was scrupulously clean. There was an old-fashioned piano which had probably not been opened for years, and a still more old-fashioned cabinet. The table—round in shape—was covered by an elaborately worked cloth, upon whose surface rested a number of books, including a huge Family Bible.