"Now tell me," said Major Heathcote presently, "what do you like to see and do while you are here? What is your particular line? I suppose you have one?--every one has now-a-days. Is it old furniture shops? If so we can motor over to Eastminster, where you can poke about in dust and dirt to your heart's content. Or is it something more learned--abbeys and architecture? If so there are Castle Hill and the ruins of Bessmoor Priory. Or pictures at Longmead--or scenery? Make your choice. The only things we can not supply are social functions. Our neighbours are few and far between, and many of them are away just now." "You can strike the last items off your list," rejoined Philippa decidedly; "I certainly don't want them. I just want to be allowed to do nothing in particular except see a great deal of your lovely country in the quietest and laziest way possible, please. These little villages fascinate me--all clustering round a church which looks far too big and important for the number of cottages. Why have you so many churches about here? I counted eight on my way from the station." "Ah!" was the reply, "times have changed in these parts since the days when the priors and monks raised these churches, and since the countryside was thickly populated. Silk and wool were staple industries here then. Many and various causes have brought about the change. First they say that the Black Death raged more violently here than in any other part of England, and second---- Excuse me!" Major Heathcote broke off suddenly as the butler handed him a telegram. "How did this come at this hour?" "Miss Brooks sent it up, sir; Bailey's boy brought it on a bicycle--she thought----" The man's voice trailed away into silence at the look on his master's face. Major Heathcote's eyes were fixed on the pink slip in his hand, and Philippa, who was watching him, saw his face darken suddenly and his rather square jaw shoot forward as a strong man's will in the face of danger. Then he rose quickly and walked round to his wife. "Old girl!" he said, "I am afraid the boy isn't very fit--Jack wires that he seems seedy, and that they have got a man over from York. Don't be anxious, it's probably nothing much--but I think I'll run up and see." "Dickie! Oh, Bill!" faltered Marion. "What does he say? Let me see." "That's all. Just 'Dickie doesn't seem well, have wired for Stevens from York,'" he repeated. His hand was tightly clenched on the crumpled ball of paper. "Wait a moment, darling. Let me think a minute----" "Yes! Ford! The car round at once, please,"--he gave the order sharply,--"and bring me a Bradshaw. I think I can get to Eastminster in time to catch the 9.15, which should get to Carton Junction in time for the North Express. Now, dearest,"--he turned to his wife again,--"you must try not to be too anxious. I will----"