"Two hundred years," Jane-Anne echoed. "Why, then I must have ancestors, after all." "You can call ’em ancestors, if you do please," Mrs. Dew continued; "we do call ’em forbears where I comes from. Well, as I was sayin’, I’d have you remember, an’ if you feels carried away and giddy-like, just think as there’s a hold aunt down in Oxford as sets great store by you——" Mrs. Dew’s voice broke; Jane-Anne rose hastily from her knees and ran to her aunt, and took her in her arms. "Aunt, dear," she said, "I will remember." "I never ’eard," Mrs. Dew went on in a muffled tone, "anything to speak of about your father’s people. For all I know, he might ’ave come from some of them ’eathen gods and goddesses, bad lots they were, and it’s that as makes we so worrited. Burford blood you can depend on—but I’m sure as it’s the Grecian comin’ out as drives you to play-acting." Very gently Jane-Anne withdrew her arms from about her aunt. "I know I’m often silly," she said humbly, "but you mustn’t blame my father for that." "You’re as the Lard made you," Mrs. Dew remarked drily, "and you can but try and make the best of a bad job. But remember this—if you feels ill, or if you wants me any time for any reason, a telegram’ll bring me just every bit as quick as I can put foot to the ground and find somebody to do for the master while I be away. You bear that in mind." "You’re very good to me, aunt," said Jane-Anne, and flung her arms round Mrs. Dew’s neck once more. She and Mr. Wycherly went to evensong in the cathedral. It was the fourth of January, and the "proper psalms" were the twenty-second and the twenty-third. Jane-Anne shivered with a chilly sense of foreboding as the wailing chant rang out, echoing eerily in the great arched roof. "_I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart also in the midst of my body is even like melting wax._" Presently the minor changed to something infinitely serene and sweet and comforting; and to Jane-Anne standing timidly on the threshold of her new life, there was promise of help that could not fail her in the assurance: "_The Lord is my shepherd therefore can I lack nothing._" And at the final verse: "_But Thy loving kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life..._" she thrust her little hand into that of her old friend, and his closed over it with a firm and understanding clasp. When the day, so charged with various emotions, came to an end, and she went to bid him good-night, she found him standing on the hearth-rug in the firelight. Montagu had gone for a few days to a school-friend before he came up to New, and they were all alone.