Facing the duck pond, at the far end of the green, was the white cottage in which Torrington the artist had lived and died. It had changed a bit since his time. Things had been added by his more opulent successor. There were an iron gate, a considerable garden and a tall tower with a glass roof which nobly commanded the steep wooded slopes of the valley of the Sharrow. With the new eyes a great painter had given him Bill saw at once that this was a rare pitch for an artist. It was one of the most beautiful spots in the land. The immense city of Blackhampton with its thousands of chimneys and its roaring factories might have been a hundred miles off instead of a bare four miles down the valley. There was not a glimpse or a sound of it here in this peace-haunted woodland, in this enchantment of stream and hill, bathed in a pomp of golden cloud and magic beauty. The simple cottage had been modernized and amplified, but with rare tact and cunning, so that it was still "all of a piece," much as Torrington had left. But the house itself was empty, with green shutters across the windows. On the gate was a padlock, the reason for which was given in a printed bill stuck on a board that had been raised beside it. By order of the executors of the late James Stanning, Esqre., A.R.A., to be sold by auction the valuable and historical property known as Torrington Cottage Dibley, together with the following furniture and effects. A list followed of the furniture and effects, but across the face of the bill was pasted a diagonal red-lettered slip, This property has been sold by private treaty. The Corporal tried to open the gate but found the padlock unyielding, and then he gazed at the notice wistfully. "Wonder who's bought it," he said. Melia wondered too. "Hope it's an artist," said the Corporal. "So do I. But I expect it isn't. Artists is scarce." "You're right, there." The Corporal sighed heavily. "Artists is scarce." There was a strange look in his eyes and he turned them suddenly upon the duck pond so that Melia shouldn't notice it. Across the road, beside the duck pond, was a wooden bench, sacred to the village elders, none of whom, however, was in occupation at this moment. The Corporal pointed to it. "Let's go an' set there a minute," he said in a husky voice. As if she had been a child he took her by the hand and led her to it. They sat down and in a moment or two it was as if the spirit of the place had descended upon them. The magic hush of evening crept into their blood like a subtle wine. A strange soft rapture seemed to pervade the air. The Unseen spoke to them as never before.