All this might be true; but the fact nevertheless remained that as Hilda grew up, the worldly fortunes of Kildhurm went down; until, at about the period of the young lady's seventeenth birthday, they were pretty nearly in as bad a condition as when, forty years before, Sir Norman had ridden out to show his friend Colonel Banyon the way over the Convent Cliff. Evidently, therefore, if Hilda was going to restore the fortunes of the race, she could not set about the business too soon. Hilda herself, however, did not appear to have any idea how the thing was to be done; nor (being a person of a disposition to derive a great deal of pleasure from a very economical expenditure) did she seem to think a fortune of any paramount importance. She performed her household avocations with cheerfulness and punctuality, and enjoyed her recreation on the sea shore or the hills as heartily as if she had been mistress of ten thousand a year. But at last, luckily for Kildhurm, and for the reputation of prophecy, an unexpected occurrence took place. A strange young gentleman made his appearance in the neighbourhood. He was in every respect a highly interesting object. He was blue-eyed, handsome in face and figure, courteous and brave. Though hardly more than twenty-five years old, he was a captain of Grenadiers, and had won his rank by gallant services in the American War. He was rich and well connected; and it was reported that he had come into the neighbourhood to buy land, to build a house, and to settle down in it. His name was Harold Bramston; and he was a bachelor.