The exploring tourists of these latter days were told that the Chudleigh-Combe estate had been bought by the grandfather of the late Lord Aspendell, and paid for with his wife's fortune; and that the mansion had been built by the same Earl, and paid for with the same money. The estate had never been entailed, and had been sold by the last Earl, Cecil's father, to a wealthy citizen, who, after occupying the lonely mansion through a rainy summer, repented himself bitterly of his bargain, and tried to sell the estate; but an estate buried in Devonian woods, and twenty miles from a railroad, is not every one's money; and while Chudleigh Combe was yet in the market the merchant died, leaving a will so badly worded as to occasion a Chancery suit. This suit had been pending for more than a year, and the house was left in charge of a superannuated cook, and the grounds in custody of a couple of gardeners. It was this place whose image haunted Cecil in her dreams, the scene in which her childhood had been passed, and the spot which was associated with the happiest period of her life. She thought how easy a thing it would have been for Hector Gordon to buy Chudleigh Combe, and to take her back to the familiar gardens--the dear old-fashioned rooms: how easy, if there had been no such person as Mary Chesham. The old life in Dorset Square brought with it all the old responsibilities. The dowager's health had been very uncertain all through the winter, and the dowager's temper was something worse than uncertain. She had founded high hopes on the chance of a marriage between her nephew and niece, a marriage which should bring Hector Gordon and Hector Gordon's wealth comfortably under her dominion: and now that all those fond expectations had been disappointed, she was inclined to resent her disappointment as a wrong inflicted upon her by Cecil. In such peevish lamentations did Mrs. MacClaverhouse bewail her poverty at this period, that Cecil began to feel herself a burden on her aunt's slender income, and to taste all the bitterness that poisons the bread of dependence. She did not know the world well enough to know that there are people to whom it is delightful to grumble,--mental voluptuaries, who would be unhappy if they could find no crumpled rose-leaf for the justification of their discontent. Cecil fancied that her protectress had substantial cause for her lamentations, and she began to be ashamed of her useless life and the trifling expenses which her presence inflicted upon her kinswoman. "I am as well educated as most of the governesses I have met with, auntie," she said once; "why shouldn't I go out as a governess, and earn my living?" "What!" screamed the dowager; "Lord Aspendell's daughter would be a nice sort of person to teach a regiment of tiresome brats for twenty pounds a-year. Upon my word, Cecil, I haven't common patience with you when I hear you talk such nonsense."