"I have helped you very nicely all the morning, Connie, and I hope you appreciate my goodness. But as for messing about the lawn with a bun worry in full blast,—thank you, Maxfield is not on. One doesn't want to let one's self in for everything."

"Your goodness isn't such as to alarm me," sighed Constance, casting a worried glance about the Manor green. "You're in no danger of acquiring saintship. Dad has balked, too. What'll I do alone?"

"Being on toast yourself, why do you want to have me there?" said Max mischievously. "Aren't all the Sunday school mistresses coming to help and didn't you ask those nice American kiddies?"

"I did, and that's another reason why I want you," retorted Connie, flying to adjust to her better satisfaction the basket of narcissus decorating the chief table. "Max, I don't know where to have you. Since you came from the States, I can't make out whether you are English or American. Here you are shying either at an English school treat or at some nice American children. Which is it?"

"Neither, I think," Max replied after a survey of the close-clipped lawn, boasting that velvety turf which only centuries of care can perfect. Great groups of laurel proudly proclaimed the right of the Manor to its name; carefully trimmed hedges of yew and box protected borders already gay with spring flowers, and beyond the grounds shimmered the sea. Max's glance was one of affection, for this was the scene of many happy boyhood days.

"I think I'd shy just as quickly at an American tea-fight," he said at length. "As for being neither English nor American, I love both countries. I would certainly be loyal to my own, but I would also take up arms for England, if the time ever came that she needed me and the two duties didn't conflict."

"You're a duck," said Constance promptly. "Come, take up arms and carry a basket of buns for me this afternoon."

"Too many petticoats coming," said Max. "I'm afraid of those freaks from the rectory. But I'll agree to furnish a substitute who will more than take my place. The kiddies will be thrilled to a peanut. Come now, let me off?"

"I suppose so," agreed Constance. "Don't bother about letting me down softly. Trot off and do anything you think you have to do. Here are the MarquÉ children already. And there come the Thaynes."

"I will perform a vanishing act," said Max quickly. "Connie, I really am booked for an hour with Uncle Dick, but I'll send that substitute. Watch for him."

Constance looked after him suspiciously, but Max was already half across the sunken garden, whistling to Tylo as he went.

"Are we too early, Miss Connie?" asked Frances as they came up.

"Just on the dot," replied Connie, greeting them all. "The children are arriving. We will play games first and then have tea. Excuse me, please, while I go and speak to the Reverend Fred."

Constance departed to greet the curate thus disrespectfully designated, a youthful individual of rather prepossessing appearance. Just behind him appeared Rose and Muriel LeCroix and other girls whom Frances knew at school.

Soon the children came thick and fast, shy youngsters propelled by older brothers and sisters, independent groups, a few babies in arms, a scattering of older people.

Two white-draped tables by the yew hedge were the target for the children's eyes as they wondered what those linen-covered baskets concealed. There would be tea of course, buns in plenty, possibly cake.

Presently the children, poked and pulled into line were started playing
London Bridge, two of the biggest girls forming the bridge.

For a moment Frances stood apart, watching the marching, shouting youngsters, scrubbed till they shone, clothed in clean though often clumsy garments and heavy shoes. No great poverty was indicated by their apparel, and some, evidently of French origin, were dressed with real taste and daintiness. These were also remarkable for a more vivacious appearance than the stolid little Anglo-Saxons. Some few were of striking beauty.

As one game succeeded another, the children grew less stiff and self-conscious. The Reverend Fred was joining in the sport with conscientious zeal, as were his two sisters and Edith and Miss Connie. Fran caught the contagion and found herself flying about the Manor lawn, tying a handkerchief over one child's eyes to lead in Blindman's Buff, helping another group play King of the Castle, finally organizing a game of Drop the Handkerchief.

With amused surprise she saw Roger actually helping Muriel LeCroix with a number of the smallest children, and this fact so impressed Frances that she failed to note Win's absence.

Her brother was not far away. Had Frances been nearer the opening in the hedge, leading into the sunken garden in its season full of roses, she might have seen an interesting picture, for with great glee, Win was helping prepare for appearance Max's promised substitute.

Down in the rose-garden, where an old sundial marked "only the sunny hours," the afternoon shadows grew long. The older people, somewhat exhausted by strenuous play, seated the children in a big circle ready for tea. From the Manor emerged Yvonne, Pierre, and Paget, Constance's old nurse, armed with shiny copper cans, to fill cups for distribution.

Frances seized a basket of buns and for a time was so occupied with playing Lady Bountiful to a host of little hands, now rather grimy, that it seemed quite natural to be sharing in this unusual festivity. But as she was hurrying back to the table to refill her empty basket, she met Edith on a similar errand. Suddenly it struck her as very odd that she should be helping.

"This is the funniest affair I ever saw," she confided merrily.

"Why?" asked the puzzled Edith, lifting grave eyes to look at her.
"Don't you give the Sunday school children treats in America?"

"Oh, yes," admitted Frances, "but we'd never fill them up on weak tea and buns. They'd expect ice-cream and cake."

Edith looked much shocked. "Ices are very dear," she remarked, "and not fitting for these children. Would you really serve ices in winter?" she asked incredulously.

"On the very coldest day of the year," asserted Frances emphatically. "Oh, America is so different, Edith! Why there's scarcely a town so tiny that you can't buy ice-cream any time of the day or any time of year."

"It must indeed be different," Edith agreed. Basket refilled, she returned to her charges.

For a minute Frances lingered, looking around at the circle of hilarious children, each with a mug, more or less precariously clasped, each stuffing big plummy buns; looked at the older people so anxiously attending to them. Yes, it was very different, very English, but also very interesting.

As Frances passed the entrance to the sunken garden, her basket filled this time by solid-looking pieces of cake, she heard her name.

"Fran," came Win's voice, "call Tylo. Get him to come out on the lawn."

Frances called. She could see no one in the garden, only hear amused voices trying to induce Tylo to answer the summons.

"He won't start," said Win again. "Ask Miss Connie to whistle for him,
Fran."

On receiving Fran's message, Constance looked puzzled.

"I'd as soon Tylo would stop away," she said. "The kiddies may not fancy him begging for their cake. Still, I'll call."

At the summons from his mistress, Tylo instantly came, causing a sudden silence among the chattering children, silence succeeded by wild shrieks of pleasure.

The beach dog emerged from the garden wearing a wreath of roses around his neck, with an open pink silk parasol fastened to his collar and tipped at a fashionable and coquettish angle over his head and holding firmly in his mouth the handle of a basket filled with as varied an assortment of English "sweets" as Max could secure in his hasty gallop into St. Helier's.

Connie, too, gave an exclamation of laughter. "Oh, look at my best Paris brelly!" she groaned. "Max stole that. Yvonne never gave it to him."

Fully conscious that he held the center of the stage, Tylo advanced, waving his tail and casting amiable glances upon the children as they came crowding around, buns and cake forgotten. He seemed perfectly to understand what was expected and held the basket until the last sugar plum was secured by little searching hands, then employed to caress the bearer. Max's substitute certainly scored the greatest hit of the Manor "bun worry."

From their seclusion in the rose-garden, the two conspirators watched
Tylo's successful appearance.

"Let's come in and wash," said Max, seeing that no further responsibility remained to them. "Or are you keen on a bun worry? I like them, like them awfully, you know, but somehow, I'm afraid Uncle Dick may be lonely. I feel it's my duty to look him up."

Win would have seen through this flimsy excuse without the betrayal of Max's merry eyes, but the proposal chanced to be what he most wished to do. Very gladly he followed Max through the gardens to a side entrance to the house, where they went up to Max's room, a high oak-paneled chamber that would have been sombre were it not for three sunny mullioned casements overlooking the sea. Cases crowded with books stood by the fireplace, fishing rods, cricket bats and oars decorated the walls.

"Those aren't mine," said Max, noticing Win's glance as he stood drying his hands; "only the skiis and racquets. This was Richard's room, Uncle Dick's only son. He was a subaltern in the British army, just twenty when he was killed in the charge on Majuba Hill. They have always given me his room at the Manor. I fancy Uncle liked to have it occupied by a boy again."

"Colonel Lisle himself must have done some fighting," observed Win.
"How did he lose his arm?"

"For years he was an officer in India. He lost his arm defending the
Khyber Pass against the Afghans."

Max took his guest down the main staircase to the great entrance hall, with its high raftered roof, and stone floor half covered by valuable Oriental rugs. Suits of shining armor lent glints of light; curious spears, ancient swords and firearms, many of them very old, were fastened on walls dark with age. Win stopped to look at the carved mantel over the great fireplace, sporting the leopards of Jersey, the Lisle coat of arms and the date 1509.

"Imagine living in a house built all those centuries ago," he sighed.
"This is older than the library, isn't it?"

"Somewhat," replied Max. "The wing here is the oldest part of the house. Let's come to Uncle's study. I fancy he'll be there."

Colonel Lisle was lounging near the fire, but appeared very willing to put aside his book and welcome the two.

"And have you had tea, Uncle?" Max inquired. "We haven't, and I could do nicely with a cup."

"With all those gallons of tea on the lawn, it is a pity if an able-bodied young gentleman couldn't secure one cup," said the Colonel smiling. "Now you mention it, I believe I have had none either. Ring the bell by all means and order it. I was absorbed in verifying some points of old Norman law," he added to Win. "Our islands have an interesting history."

"Win is pleased that Prince Charles has left his mark on Jersey," observed Max, giving the bell-pull a vigorous twitch. "Tell him, Uncle, about his stopping here."

"Such is the legend handed down from father to son," replied the Colonel. "The story goes that the prince was brought to the Manor immediately after landing in Jersey. Just where he landed and how he was conveyed here is not known, but his stay was short. The owner of the Manor at that date, another Richard Lisle,—he whose portrait hangs in the library,—was an ardent Royalist who would have risked everything to serve his prince. Authorities agree that Charles spent the period of his stay in one of the castles, some say Orgueil, others Elizabeth. Probably the Manor roof sheltered him but for a few hours. I should very much like to see the legend of his stop in this house authenticated beyond question. Max tells me you are fond of books," the speaker continued. "After tea, I will show you some of our special treasures."

Win's face, already alight with interest, grew even more responsive to this offer, yet as the tea came, he felt unaccountably stupid and idiotic. Utter disgust with himself filled his mind to think he couldn't get to the point then and there of telling his kind host about that letter he had discovered.

Max noticed that Win was ill at ease, attributed it to shyness or perhaps awe of the Colonel, who was, as Max put it, "a bit impressive till a fellow knew him," and tried to help matters by talking nonsense that amazed Win and evidently amused the Colonel. Gradually, as he saw that Max was not in the least afraid of the dignified owner of the Manor, Win began to feel less tongue-tied.

Presently came a sound of gay voices, a tap at the door and Constance, the girls, and Roger entered.

"The tea-party is gone and in its place is peace," said Connie. "Daddy dear, I want you to meet Frances and Edith. And this is Roger. Max, why didn't you have tea with us and the kiddies?"

"Because of buns," said Max. "My bun-eating days are past."

"Not so long past!" retorted Constance with a mischievous smile. "Not so many years ago that I bribed you with a penny bun to steal a tooth for me out of a skull in the Capuchin church! He did it, too," she added to the girls, laughing delightedly at this charge. "You haven't been in Rome? The Capuchin monks have a church there with some holy earth brought from Jerusalem. Years ago,—they don't do it now, because modern sanitary laws have invaded Rome,—the monks who died were buried in this earth. Only of course as the centuries passed, there wasn't room for them all, so the monks longest buried had to get up and give place to others. Their bones were arranged in nice neat patterns on the walls, and the skulls heaped in piles. It was a tooth from one of these skulls that I fancied. Max ate the bun and stole the tooth for me, but Daddy wouldn't let me keep it and made Max put it back."

"Oh, how could you ever want such a thing, Miss Connie!" exclaimed
Edith, shuddering with horror.

"I wonder, why did I?" said Constance reflectively. "It certainly doesn't appeal to me now. Mother was shocked; she disinfected everything that tooth had touched. Are you through tea, Daddy? I want to take the girls into the library."

Once again in the old book-room, Win recovered his self-possession in admiration of its treasures of illuminated missal and manuscript. His interest pleased his host, who ended by cordially inviting the boy to visit the Manor library whenever and as often as he chose to come. Win's genuine delight over this permission touched the Colonel, who from his own physical handicap, guessed that life was not always smooth for Win.

Win's pleasure arose not merely from the enjoyment of the library itself but because he would surely grow better acquainted with the Manor family and have a more favorable opportunity to show his discovery in the old Psalter.

He was very quiet on the way home and scarcely spoke while Fran was giving her mother a graphic account of the afternoon. Win hardly knew she was talking until his attention was caught by a dramatic remark.

"Miss Connie told us something so exciting, Mother," Fran was saying. "Roger asked her if there was a ghost. He blurted it right out and I was quite mortified, because you know if they did have one and were sensitive, it would have seemed impolite. But Miss Connie said right away that the Manor had all modern improvements, including a well-behaved and most desirable ghost. Then she and Mr. Max looked at each other and laughed. She said the haunted room was above the library and promised to give us a chance to investigate some day. I wanted dreadfully to ask about secret stairs,—you remember what that boy at Orgueil said—but perhaps when we are looking for the ghost there will be a chance to speak of the stairs."

"Indeed, you've had a most interesting afternoon," agreed Mrs. Thayne, "the discovery of a haunted room at the Manor being not the least."

"And what have you done all by yourself, poor Mother?" said Frances, suddenly sympathetic and affectionate.

"Part of the afternoon I was out and since then I have been talking with Estelle. If she only felt she could, it would be so much better for her to go more among people, for the constant effort to be brave when she is so much alone, is very wearing. She seems so pathetically grateful that we chanced to come to her this winter instead of other less congenial lodgers. Sometime I hope she will speak frankly of just how they are situated and whether she has plans beyond this season, for I might be able to further them. And I hope, too, I shall succeed in placing the something familiar that always strikes me in Estelle. Have you ever noticed it, Fran? To my surprise, Win said the other day that Estelle reminded him of some one."

"No," said Fran. "I never noticed it. But I might ask Edith whether they have any relatives in the United States."

"That could do no harm," assented Mrs. Thayne thoughtfully. "Since Win spoke of it also, the resemblance must be to some one we know over there."

Frances and her mother went away but Win sat thinking for some moments. The mention of secret stairs recalled to him, though he could not say why, that odd dream twice experienced since he came to Jersey, of a search in a narrow unfamiliar passage, with unknown companions, for something unspecified.

With a start he finally roused himself and went upstairs. Before going to bed he read again the copy of Richard Lisle's letter.

"There's more to this than just the coming of the prince," he thought. "That's a fact, but if that 'safe place' can be discovered, I'll warrant we shall find the Spanish Chest and whatever 'relicks' Richard and his 'Sonne' put into it."