“News!” answered the old man, somewhat querulously. “There’s never nothing but news up there, and very new-fangled news, too. What do you think, now, John? They do talk of turning all them greenhouses into hothouses; for, to be sure, there’s nothing the new missus cares about but just the finest grapes in the country; and the flowers, purty creatures, may go to the devil for her. There’s a lady for ye!” “But you’ll be glad to have her home, and see what she’s like, won’t you? It’s rather dull up there now, isn’t it?” “I don’t know what you call dull,” replied the old man, as if half offended at the suggestion. “I don’t believe a soul missed his lordship when he died; and there’s always Mrs. Blakesley and me, as is the best friends in the world, besides the three maids and the stableman, who helps me in the garden, now there’s no horses. And then there’s Jacob and--” “But you don’t mean,” said Wood, interrupting him, “that there’s _none_ o’ the family at home now?” “No. Who should there be? Least ways, only the poor lady. And she hardly counts now--bless her sweet face!” “Do you ever see her?” interposed one of the by-sitters. “Sometimes.” “Is she quite crazy?” “Al-to-gether; but that quiet _and_ gentle, you would think she was an angel instead of a mad woman. But not a notion has she in _her_ head, no more than the babe unborn.” It was a dreadful shock to me. Was this to be the end of all? Were it not better she had died? For me, life was worthless now. And there were no wars, with the chance of losing it honestly. I rose, and went to my own room. As I sat in dull misery by the fire, it struck me that it might not have been Lady Alice after all that the old man spoke about. That moment a tap came to my door, and Wood entered. After a few words, I asked him who was the lady the gardener had said was crazy. “Lady Alice,” he answered, and added: “A love story, that came to a bad end up at the Hall years ago. A tutor was in it, they say. But I don’t know the rights of it.”