Dull and heavy was the day, with a cold grey sky overhead, a humid wind blowing chill with the moisture of the fens, and a sense of decay in the atmosphere. The gaunt, bare trees with their slender branches and twigs outlined with delicate distinctness against the sad grey sky--the withered leaves with their vivid reds and yellows which carpeted the ground--the absence of song of bird or cheerful lowing of kine--all weighed down and depressed his spirits. The uniform tints of the landscape with their absence of colour and life seemed like a type of his own existence at present; but lo, when he raised his eyes a golden shaft of sunlight was above the distant towers of the Grange, where he hoped to find the talisman which would change the grey monotony of an uneventful past to the glory and joy of a happy future. It was an omen of success, and his eyes brightened, his step grew springy and he clutched his stick with determination as he strode towards the glory of the sun, leaving the grey mists and desolate landscape behind him. As he walked on he saw a short distance ahead the tall figure of a man, and on coming abreast of him, he recognised Basil Beaumont, who was listlessly strolling along, thinking deeply. Remembering the vicar's dislike to the character of Beaumont, he was about to pass on with a conventional nod, when the artist spoke, and he could not with courtesy refuse to answer. "Good morning, Blake," he said in a friendly tone. "Taking a constitutional?" "Not exactly," replied Reginald, falling into the leisurely walk of the artist; "the vicar wants to know how Squire Garsworth is?" "Had I met you earlier I could have saved you the walk," said Beaumont indolently; "he is much better--they sent to Nestley this morning to tell him about it." "Where is Dr. Nestley now?" asked Blake. Beaumont pointed to the Grange with his stick. "Over there," he answered, "seeing his patient. I expect he'll have to remain down here for some time--the Squire has taken a great fancy to him--rich men's likings are poor men's fortunes." "Good. I wish someone would take a liking to me," said Blake with a sigh. "I need a fortune." "You've got one." "Indeed! Where?" "In your throat!" Reginald laughed and shook his head. "I hardly think that," he answered gaily. "Don't be so mock modest, my dear boy," said Beaumont with a shrug. "I assure you I'm not one to praise unnecessarily. You need training, severe training, to bring your voice to perfection; but you've got a wonderful organ to work on--not that voice is everything, mind you; I've known people with good voices to whom such a gift is absolutely worthless." "Why?" "Because they've got no talent. To make a singer needs more than voice--it needs great perseverance, powerful dramatic instinct, an educated mind, and a strong individuality." "I don't think I've got all that," said Reggy rather disconsolately.