A wide, well-kept carriage drive swept up between fields of what Edward rightly surmised to be ancient glebe, in which a few sheep grazed placidly, lifting drowsy heads to gaze unconcernedly at the high stepping mare, a turkey, angrily suffused about the head, gobbled in indignant protest, and a peacock, with outspread tail, strutted resplendent. An Alderney whisked the flies from its back lazily as it chewed its cud. A sunk fence divided the paddocks from a large lawn, which, with flower beds of varied shape, rich in a declining bloom, extended to the long French windows of a massive, square, two-storied building of deep-toned, ruddy brick, about which the ivy and the honeysuckle climbed and clustered in rich luxuriance. At the trellised porch of the main entrance stood a tall, well-built, portly man of some sixty years. His face was full and clean-shaven, his teeth perfect, his hair, still abundant, snowy white. His broad shoulders, well thrown back, enabled him to bear without loss of dignity a becoming fullness of habit. The hand, which was extended in greeting to Edward, was plump, white, and soft, the voice refined and mellow. “You’re train was late, of course, Mr. Beaumont. If a train arrived punctually at Caistorholm we should expect a revival of miracles in the Church. You shall go to your room now, and we can have a chat in my study before dinner. We dine early, six o’clock. I hope you won’t find that too early for you; but you must try to put up with our country ways.”