"Yes, this church was built by these brothers. They walled the churchyard--this is their old grey wall, with the wallflowers; they built the lych-gate--there it is--in the churchyard; they founded a school for the young--there it is"--she pointed to a small stone hall standing in the north-west corner of the churchyard. It was of the same period and of the same architecture as the church; the windows had the same tracery; the buttresses were covered with yellow lichen: a beautiful and venerable structure. From the building there came a confused murmur of voices. "And on the other side of the church they built an almshouse for the old--there it is"--she pointed to a long low building, also of the same architecture. "So, you see, they provided, in the same enclosure, a place of worship for the living, a place of burial for the dead, a school for the young, and a haven of rest for the old." The sentiment of the history touched her companion, who looked about her, and murmured-- "It seems a peaceful place." "Everything in the place seems to belong to those four brothers: the old house behind those trees, the broken cross at the gate, the ruined college in the village, the very cottages, all seem to me to be monuments of those four brothers." "It is a beautiful thing owning such a house and such a place," said the other. "But I prefer your gardens to your churchyard, Hilarie, I confess." Just then a young man, in a hired victoria, drove up to the gate and descended, and looked about him with an indolent kind of curiosity. He wore a brown velvet coat, had a crimson scarf with a white waistcoat, carried a pince-nez on his nose, had sharp and somewhat delicate features, carried his head high, and was tall enough to convey by that attitude, which was clearly habitual, the assumption of superiority, if not of disdain. And there was in him something of the artist. His face was pale and clean shaven; his lips were thin; his hair was light, with a touch of yellow in it; his eyes, when you could make them out, were of a light blue, and cold. His figure was thin, and not ungraceful. In a word, a young man of some distinction in appearance; of an individuality certainly marked, perhaps self-contained, perhaps selfish. He walked slowly up the path. When he drew near the girls he raised his hat. "Am I right," he asked, "in thinking this to be Woodroffe Church?" "Yes. It is Woodroffe Church." "The church built by the Archbishop and his brothers?" "This is their church. That is their school. That is their almshouse. Would you like to go into the church? I have the key with me, and am going in at once."