The village of Haversleigh was only ten minutes' walk from the lodge gates. It consisted of one long row of quaint black-and-white cottages, with thatched roofs, and gardens so gay with flowers that they seemed to be overflowing into the road, and pinks and pansies were coming up between the cobblestones of the street. At the end stood the beautiful ancient church, built in days when each artisan was a master of his craft, and made his work a labour of love. Strangers often came from a distance to admire the delicate tracery of the windows, the exquisite carving of the pillars, and the splendid old oak choir stalls that had formed part of a tenth-century abbey. At the west end hung a collection of banners, won by Monica's ancestors in many a hard-fought battle, and, all tattered and faded as they were, still bearing tribute to the glories of the past. There were monuments, too, in memory of the Courtenays: stone effigies of knights in armour, lying under carved canopies emblazoned with their coats-of-arms; stiff ladies and gentlemen of Tudor times, with starched ruffs and buckled shoes; and one lovely marble figure, by a forgotten sculptor, of a young daughter of the house who had perished during the Great Plague. The ruthless hands that had chipped and spoiled many of the other monuments had spared this one, and the beautiful, calm face seemed to be resting in tranquil sleep, patiently waiting for the summons to arise to immortality. The Manor pew, though large, could not accommodate the school. The girls sat in the left aisle, and made quite an important addition to the little congregation of villagers. They certainly helped to swell the singing, and I think even the most thoughtless among them learned to love that dear old church, and carried its remembrance into after years. The Rectory marked the last boundary of the village, then the road passed over a bridge straight into the open country. The scenery was pretty without being grand. Picturesque farmhouses stood in the midst of rich pastures, behind which rose wooded slopes leading to a higher peak, called Pendle Tor, that stood out as a landmark for the district. Naturally the girls were very anxious to explore the neighbourhood, and delighted when Miss Russell allowed walks on half-holidays. The whole school was not often sent out together, but each form would go in turn, separately, with its own teacher--an arrangement that all much preferred, as they could then ramble about in an informal manner, instead of keeping to the prim file which was the general rule. One Wednesday afternoon, at the end of May, it was the turn of the third class, and its six members were standing by the gate, impatiently awaiting the arrival of Miss Frazer, who, to do her justice, was not often at fault in the matter of punctuality.