The young men looked at each other with a kind of jealousy. They resented this charge of resemblance. "Like that bounder?" said the look of the young man of clubs. "Like this Piccadilly masher?" was the expression on the speaking countenance of the man on tramp. "After five hundred years." Hilarie pondered over this strange coincidence. "Let us go back to the churchyard." At the porch she paused, and bade them look round. "Tell me," she said, "if you have ever seen a place more beautiful or more peaceful?" The amplitude of the churchyard was in harmony with the stateliness of the church. An ancient yew stood in one corner; the place was surrounded by trees; the steps of the old Cross were hollowed by the feet of many generations; beyond the quiet mounds the dark trees with their heavy foliage made a fitting background; two or three of the bedesmen stood at their door, blinking in the sunshine. "The almshouse is a reading-room now," said Hilarie. "The old people have quarters more commodious for sleeping, but they come here all day long to read and rest." They stood in silence for a while. The swifts flew about the tower and the spire; the lark was singing in the sky, the blackbird in the coppice. The air was full of soft calls, whispers-twitters of birds, the humming of insects, and the rustle of leaves. From the schoolroom came the continuous murmur of children's voices. Another old man passed slowly along the path among the graves towards the almshouse: it seemed as if he were choosing his own bed for a long sleep. Everything spoke of life, happy, serene, and peaceful. "I am glad you came here," said Hilarie. "It is your own. When you know it you will love everything in it--the church and the churchyard, the trees and the birds, the old men and the children, the living and the dead." Her eyes filled with tears. Those of the man with the violin-case softened, and he listened and looked round. Those of the other showed no response--they were resting with admiration upon the other girl. "Come"--Hilarie returned to the duty of hostess,--"let me show you the house--the old, old house--where your ancestors lived." She led the way to the gate by which she had entered. She conducted them along a path under the trees into a small park. In the middle of the park were buildings evidently of great age. They were surrounded by a moat, now dry, with a bridge over it, and beyond the bridge a little timbered cottage which had taken the place of gate tower and drawbridge. Within was a garden, with flowers, fruit, and vegetables, all together. And beyond the garden was the house. And surely there is no other house like unto it in the whole country. In the middle was a high-roofed hall; at either end were later buildings; beyond these buildings, at one end, was a low broad tower, embattled. The windows of the hall were the same as those of the church, the school, and the almshouse.