“I see,” Helen said. “I shall be glad to go there for a time you know; it’s Alfred’s country.” “I remembered that.” “John Everard is living at Buddesby with his sister Constance. They are two of the dearest people—the children, you know, of Alfred’s brother Matthew.” “Yes—yes, to be sure,” said the old gentleman, who was not in the slightest degree interested. “And they will be nice for your Joan Meredyth to know,” said Mrs. Everard. “That’s it, that’s it! Take her about; let her see people, young people. Make her enjoy herself, and forget the past. I don’t know what the past held. Joan is not one to make confidants; but I fancy that her past, poor child, has held more suffering than she cares to talk about. So try and make her forget it. Get the Everards over from Buddesby, or take her there; let her see people. But you know, you know, my dear. You’re a capable woman!” Yes, she was a capable woman, far more capable than even General Bartholomew realised. Clever and capable, kindly and generous of nature, and the girl interested her. It was only interest at first. Joan was not one to invite a warm affection in another woman at the outset. Her manner was too cold, too uninviting, and yet there was nothing repellent about it. It was as if, wounded by contact with the world, she had withdrawn behind her own defences. She, who had suffered insult and indignity, looked on all the world with suspicious, shy eyes. “I will break down her reserve. I think she is lovable and sweet when once one can force her to throw aside this mask,” Helen Everard thought. So they had come to Starden together. Joan had said little when she had first looked over the place; but Helen, watching her, saw a tinge of colour come into her cheeks, and her breast rise and fall quickly, which proved that Joan was by no means so unmoved as she would appear. It was her home, the home of her people. It was to-day almost as it had been a hundred years ago, and a hundred years before that, and even a hundred years earlier still. The low-pitched, old-fashioned rooms, with the mullioned windows, the deep embrasures, the great open, stone-slabbed hearths, with their andirons and dog-grates, the walls panelled with carved linen-fold oak, darkened by age alone and polished to a dull, glossy glow by hands that would work no more. Through these rooms, each redolent of the past, each breathing of a kindly, comfortable home-life, the girl went, looking about her with eyes that saw everything and yet seemed to see nothing. “You like it, dear?” Helen asked. “It is all wonderful, beautiful!” Joan said, and yet she spoke with a touch of sadness in her voice.... “How—how lonely one might be here!” she added. “You—you must not think of loneliness; you will never be lonely, my dear. If you are, it will be of your own choice!”