“And the woods? High Pardons Wood, Lower Pardons, Suttons, Dutton's Shaw, Reuben's Ghyll, Maxey's Ghyll, and both the Oak Hangers? Sure you've got 'em all?” “Every last stick. Why, you know them as well as I do.” He laughed. “They say there's five thousand--a thousand pounds' worth of lumber--timber they call it--in the Hangers alone.” “Mrs. Cloke's oven must be mended first thing, and the kitchen roof. I think I'll have all this whitewashed,” Sophie broke in, pointing to the ceiling. “The whole place is a scandal. Lady Conant is quite right. George, when did you begin to fall in love with the house? In the greenroom—that first day? I did.” “I'm not in love with it. One must do something to mark time till one's fit for work.” “Or when we stood under the oaks, and the door opened? Oh! Ought I to go to poor Iggulden's funeral?” She sighed with utter happiness. “Wouldn't they call it a liberty now?” said he. “But I liked him.” “But you didn't own him at the date of his death.” “That wouldn't keep me away. Only, they made such a fuss about the watching”--she caught her breath--“it might be ostentatious from that point of view, too. Oh, George”--she reached for his hand--“we're two little orphans moving in worlds not realized, and we shall make some bad breaks. But we're going to have the time of our lives.” “We'll run up to London to-morrow, and see if we can hurry those English law solicitors. I want to get to work.” They went. They suffered many things ere they returned across the fields in a fly one Saturday night, nursing a two by two-and-a-half box of deeds and maps--lawful owners of Friars Pardon and the five decayed farms therewith. “I do most sincerely 'ope and trust you'll be 'appy, Madam,” Mrs. Cloke gasped, when she was told the news by the kitchen fire. “Goodness! It isn't a marriage!” Sophie exclaimed, a little awed; for to them the joke, which to an American means work, was only just beginning. “If it's took in a proper spirit”--Mrs. Cloke's eye turned toward her oven. “Send and have that mended to-morrow,” Sophie whispered. “We couldn't 'elp noticing,” said Cloke slowly, “from the times you walked there, that you an' your lady was drawn to it, but--but I don't know as we ever precisely thought--” His wife's glance checked him. “That we were that sort of people,” said George. “We aren't sure of it ourselves yet.” “Perhaps,” said Cloke, rubbing his knees, “just for the sake of saying something, perhaps you'll park it?” “What's that?” said George. “Turn it all into a fine park like Violet Hill”--he jerked a thumb to westward--“that Mr. Sangres bought. It was four farms, and Mr. Sangres made a fine park of them, with a herd of faller deer.” “Then it wouldn't be Friars Pardon,” said Sophie. “Would it?”