Philippa rose to her feet, and walking over to the dressing-table returned with a photograph in her hand. "This was my father," she said. "It is an old photograph." Mrs. Goodman looked at it. "Yes. Mr. Jim, we used to call him." "You knew my father?" "Aye, I knew him well. He was often here in the old days--they were boys together. He was two years older than Mr. Francis. Miss Philippa was his sister." "My aunt?" "Yes, she would be your aunt. And Mr. Francis loved her, and they were to be married--and then came the accident----" Mrs. Goodman stopped suddenly. "I can't bear to speak of it----" "Try to tell me," urged Philippa. "Don't you see that I must know? I have never heard of my aunt. I never knew that my father had a sister." "He had one sister. They often stayed here together. She was some years younger than he was, and he loved her dearly--until it happened." "Until what happened?" "The accident, and Mr. Francis' illness." "Who is Mr. Francis?" Mrs. Goodman dried her eyes and made a great effort at self-control. "I will try and tell you the story from the beginning," she said. "Mr. Francis is the Major's uncle. He is the son of Lady Louisa Heathcote, my dear mistress, who was second wife to Richard Heathcote, the old squire. He--the old squire--was twice married, and his first wife was mother to William Heathcote, the Major's father. She was married to him about ten years, and then she died, and five or six years after he married Lady Louisa, my lady. Mr. Francis was her son, born in 1862. He was seventeen years younger than his half-brother, Mr. William, who was a soldier, and never lived much at home after his school-days. A splendid boy he was, Mr. Francis, and a splendid man--until he was six-and-twenty. "I can see him now, as he started that morning. It was in June. I can see him now as clearly as I saw him then, riding out of the stable yard. I was watching him from my window. His horse was rearing and plunging, but he never minded that, for he was a beautiful rider. Miss Philippa, she was walking beside him, leading her great dog--a huge brute it was, very wild, and difficult to hold, and I think Mr. Francis must have known his horse was shy of it, for I heard him call to her! 'If you're coming down to the jumps, darling, don't bring the dog. This animal is quite excited enough already.' I heard her answer him: 'Oh, that's all right!' Quite carelessly she spoke--and then they passed out of sight. The last time I saw him ride." The old woman's voice faltered and broke. "Half-an-hour later they carried him in--that awful day!" "What had happened?" asked Philippa gently, as the speaker paused.