Before the feast had been twenty minutes in progress the farmer looked up and along the table and called for lights. His eyes, he explained, were not so young as they had been. Roger--tallest of the young men-- jumped up and lit two oil-lamps that hung from the beams. The lamps had immense reflectors above them, made of tin; but they shone like silver, and Tilda took them for silver. "That's cheerfuller!" shouted Farmer Tossell with a laugh of great contentment, and fell-to again. But as the light wavered and anon grew steady, Chrissy leaned over Tilda, touched Arthur Miles on the shoulder, and pointed to the wall opposite. Tilda stared also, following the direction of her finger. The lamp-light, playing on the broad chimney-piece with its brass candlesticks and china ornaments, reached for a yard or so up the wall, and then was cut off by the shadow of the reflectors. But in that illuminated space, fronting the children, stood out a panel of plaster, moulded in high relief, overlaid with a wash of drab-coloured paint. The moulding was of a coat-of-arms--a shield surrounded by a foliated pattern, and crossed with the same four diamond device as was tattooed on Miles Arthur's shoulder--this with two antlered stags, collared, with hanging chains for supporters; above it a cap of maintenance and a stag's head coupe for crest; and beneath a scroll bearing some words which Tilda could not decipher. She glanced at Chrissy, alert at once and on the defensive. She had recognised the four diamonds, but all the rest was a mere mystery to her. "He's got just that mark on his shoulder," said Chrissy, meeting her gaze and nodding towards the shield. "Has he?" said Tilda disingenuously. But she was jealous already, and by habit distrustful of her sex. "Didn't you know? I noticed it, just now, when he was stripped. And I thought for a moment . . . you two coming and asking for Sir Miles. . . . But I'm always supposing some secret or other. Mother says it comes of muzzing my head with books, and then putting two and two together and making 'em five. . . . It's fanciful, of course"--here Chrissy sighed--"things don't happen like that in real life. . . . But there's always been stories about Sir Miles; and when I saw the mark--it _is_ queer, now--" But Tilda kept a steady face, her eyes fixed on the escutcheon. "What does it mean?" she asked. "I don't know about these things." "Why it's Sir Miles's coat-of-arms; of the Chandons, that is. Inistow Farm used to belong to them--belonged to them for hundreds of years, right down to the time Miss Sally bought it. Father farmed it under them for thirty years before that, and his father, and his grandfather, and his great-greats--back ever so long. He was terribly put out when it changed hands; but now he says 'Thank the Lord' when he talks of it." "Changed hands?" Tilda found herself echoing.