Indeed, at this moment two boys, whose ages might be ten and eleven, or eleven and twelve years, came strolling into the church by the chancel door, which stood open, their arms about one another’s shoulders, and their faces rubbing together now and then after the fashion of a couple of friendly ponies. One was tall and slender, and was of an extraordinary beauty of face and figure, with solemn, liquid dark eyes, and a very un-English look. The other was not quite so tall, was sturdy, square and strong, but clumsily built—‘a little _pleb_,’ thought the young lady, who was watching them with interest. The rest of her party had strolled on with the young woman to look at proud Abbot ——’s tombstone, which, said tradition, if a Wellfield walked over it, he should not live out the year. But the girl—she was no more—remained where she was until the boys came up to her, and they were all standing at the foot of the chancel steps, just outside the rood-screen. ‘Have you come to see the church?’ she asked, smiling. ‘We saw the door open, _signorina_, and came in,’ said the beautiful boy; ‘but we can see it as often as we want—twice every Sunday.’ His voice was sweet; his accent more than half Italian. ‘Do you live here then? What is your name?’ she asked, wishing to draw him out. ‘No; I do not live here. I am only staying a few months here. I am called Jerome Wellfield, and the abbey belongs to my father.’ ‘Indeed! Would you not like to live in such a beautiful home?’ ‘If it were not so cold in England I would; but I like Italy: it is warm there.’ ‘Yes. And you—what are you called?’ she asked, turning to the other lad. ‘John Leyburn,’ he made answer, looking at her with clear, considerate, rather light-brown eyes, which looked very ineffective beside the velvet softness and darkness of young Wellfield’s. ‘You live here, I am sure.’ ‘Yes; I live at Abbot’s Knoll with my father and mother.’ ‘And are you great friends? Have you known one another long?’ ‘Oh! we have known one another a long time—two months,’ replied young Wellfield; ‘and we are great friends, aren’t we, Jack?’ ‘Yes,’ replied ‘Jack,’ with much deliberation. Indeed all he did and said was deliberate. ‘And can you tell me what each of you likes better than anything else?’ she asked, loth to break off the conversation, and charmed with Master Jerome’s grace and beauty. ‘You, Jerome Wellfield, what do you like best?’ ‘I like so many things that are nice,’ said the boy, with a pensive smile; and glancing downwards, the long lashes swept his pale cheek. ‘I like music; and I liked mamma. I liked her drawing-room at Frascati, where the beautiful ladies used to come when I was a little boy. I like—oh! I like everything that is not ugly,’ he concluded, looking rather bored. ‘And you, my boy?’ she turned to the other. ‘I like birds’-nesting,’ was the reply, deliberate, but prompt. ‘What, better than anything? Oh, horrible!’