But Theresa, buried in her own active schemes, and in the letter she had just had from Mr. Cattacomb--though she did not mention aloud the name of the writer--neither heard nor answered. Mrs. Cleeve put the question again. "Mind being left here? Oh dear no, I shall like it. I hated the place the first few days, but I am quite reconciled to it now." "And you know exactly what there is to do for the arrival of Sir Karl and Lucy, Theresa?" "Why of course I do, Mrs. Cleeve. There's Hewitt, too: he is a host in himself." Breakfast over, Miss Blake, as was customary, went out. Having no daily service to take up her time, she hardly knew how to employ it. Mr. Cattacomb's letter had told her that he should be most happy to come to officiate at Foxwood if a church could be provided for him: the difficulty presenting itself to Miss Blake's mind was--that there was no church to provide. As Miss Blake had observed to Jane St. Henry only yesterday, she knew they might just as well ask the Dean of Westminster for his abbey, as old Sumnor for his church, or the minister for his Dissenting chapel opposite the horse-pond. Revolving these slight drawbacks in her brain, Miss Blake turned to the right on leaving the gates. Generally speaking she had gone the other way, towards the village. This road to the right was more solitary. On one side of it were the iron palisades and the grove of trees that shut in Foxwood; on the other it was bounded by a tall hedge that had more trees behind it. A little farther on, this tall hedge had a gate in the middle, high and strong, its bars of iron so closely constructed that it would not have been well possible for ill-intentioned tramps to mount it. The gate stood back a little, the road winding in just there, and was much shut in by trees outside as well as in. Opposite the gate, over the road, stood a pretty red-brick cottage villa, with green venetian shutters, creeping clematis around its parlour windows, and the rustic porch between them. It was called Clematis Cottage, and may be said to have joined the confines of Foxwood Court, there being only a narrow side-lane between, which led to the Court's stables and back premises. Miss Blake had before noticed the cottage and noticed the gate: she had wondered in her ever-active curiosity who occupied the one; she had wondered whether any dwelling was enclosed within the other. This morning as she passed, a boy stood watching the gate, his hands in his pockets and whistling to a small dog which had contrived to get its one paw into the gate and seemed to be in a difficulty as to getting it back again. Miss Blake, after taking a good look at Clematis Cottage, crossed the road; and the boy, in rustic politeness, turned his head and touched his shabby cap. "Where does this gate lead to?" she asked. "To any house?" "Yes, 'um," replied the boy, whose name, as he informed Miss Blake in reply to her question, was Tom Pepp. "It's the Maze."