Here, in the sleepy hamlet of Thornby, the Honble. Mrs. Fenchurch soon made her presence felt. She, so to speak, ‘took hold’ with both hands; stirred up the villagers, the parson, and the doctor; improved the old manor out of all recognition--and that at no great expense. This energetic lady had the good fortune to discover a priceless treasure in the village carpenter, and he and a journeyman mason, a few odd men, with Mrs. Fenchurch as architect, threw out a window here, shut up a door there, and boldly altered the principal staircase. By and by when visitors arrived to call, and were beholders of these amazing triumphs, more than one exclaimed: “Why on earth did _we_ not think of taking The Holt, and doing it up? It is perfectly delightful--who would have guessed at its capabilities?” But these envious folk never considered that its present tenant was endowed with an unusual supply of brains, enterprise, and courage. She was a born decorator, a skilled upholsteress, and had a positive genius for gardening. Before long, the attractions of The Holt were famous within a radius of ten miles--Mrs. Fenchurch seemed to know exactly where to find the prettiest chintzes, the most unique furniture, the newest roses; and her cleverness in picking up prizes in old curiosity shops had become a proverb. It was said, that in a back street of the county town she had actually bought a wonderful old Chippendale sideboard for fifteen shillings--but this would appear to be incredible. For twelve years The Holt was acknowledged to be one of the pleasantest houses in the County, its inmates the most popular, important, and influential couple of the neighbourhood, and here Doodie Fenchurch (with good-natured Tom as her consort) reigned alone and supreme. But now a change was imminent; a princess was about to enter into this kingdom--yes, and to enter within half an hour. Possibly this was why its mistress seemed so unusually silent and _distrait_. The only sister of Colonel Fenchurch had made a runaway match with a harum-scarum Irishman, who was killed in India, leaving his widow almost penniless. She died soon afterwards, and the unnecessary infant who ought to have accompanied her mother, survived to be supported by the Fenchurch family--themselves uncomfortably impecunious. Now this girl was seventeen, and in spite of Mrs. Fenchurch’s lamentations, protestations, and suggestion that she should remain another year, Letty Glyn had left school, and was on her way to take up her abode with darling Uncle Tom, and dearest Aunt Dorothy. Apparently dearest Aunt Dorothy was not warmly enthusiastic respecting her niece by marriage; but she was a woman who sedulously studied appearances. If Tom’s niece were turned out to earn her bread as companion or governess, what a talk there would be! There was positively no alternative, the girl must make her home at The Holt, in the character of _le fâcheux troisième_.