Kenrick had chosen the army for his profession. A military career offered a poor prospect of paying off the mortgages, but it was at least a gentleman-like line of life, and the four or five hundred a year which could be squeezed out of the burdened estate enabled Kenrick to live like a gentleman among his brother officers. Honour and wealth might come to him together, perhaps, in the distant future; and when he was growing old, and had lost the zest of life, he might be able to do something for Culverhouse Castle. Cyril would be a bishop, most likely, by that time, and they would sit over their port and filberts in the wainscoted parlour at Culverhouse, wagging their grey heads deprecatingly at the shortcomings of the rising generation, condemning new guns and novel doctrines, new lights of all kinds in camp or temple. Kenrick had served in India, and was home on leave. He was very fond of his cousin, for they had been brought up together, and nothing could be pleasanter to him than to spend his holiday fishing and shooting, reading or idling round about Little Yafford. He had liked the neighbourhood as a lad. He loved it now for the sake of those boyish days which were so delightful to look back upon--all the lights in the picture remembered, all the shadows forgotten. He had an almost filial affection for Mr. and Mrs. Dulcimer--and the hills and moors and wandering streams of Yorkshire had a charm for him which was second only to his delight in his native Hampshire. The two young men were sitting by Cyril’s hearth on this autumn evening, talking confidentially over pipe and cigar. They had spent the day apart, Kenrick tramping over the moors with his gun, Cyril engaged in his parish work. They were talking of Christian Harefield, the owner of the Water House, one of the most important places in Little Yafford, after the Park, and the father of that Beatrix whom Mrs. Dulcimer was so anxious to dispose of matrimonially. ‘One of the most disagreeable men I ever met in my life,’ said Kenrick. ‘Miss Harefield was driving him in her basket pony carriage--he looked about as suitable an occupant of a pony carriage as Mephistopheles for a go-cart--and I met them at the bottom of the hill, going up that wild road to the moor. I wonder whether he was going to gather the samolus, left-handed and fasting, or to cut mistletoe with a golden sickle? Upon my word, he looked as grim and ancient as a Druid. Beatrix stopped the pony when she saw me, and introduced me to her father. “This is Sir Kenrick Culverhouse, papa,” she said, whereat the Druid grunted. “Are you going far up the hill?” I asked, with the originality which distinguishes these casual conversations; “I’m afraid it will be dark before you come back.” “Oh, we don’t mind that,” she said, “Puck and I know our way so well.” So they went up into the thickening mist, and I saw no more of them. I dare say they are up there still. Do you know if the old gentleman is quite right in his mind?’