The big dining-room of Wilborough Hall, with a table at one end of it as a buffet, was full of people eating and drinking and talking and laughing. As Grafton and Barbara and Young George went in, they saw few there whom they did not know, and among the crowd there were many who could already be counted as friends.

No gathering of this sort could be found in a city, nor in many countries outside England, where the land is loved, and lived on, by those who could centre themselves elsewhere if they chose. To the Graftons, as new-comers, the people gathered here from a radius of some miles were beginning to be known in the actualities of their lives as acquaintances in London never could be known, except those who could be called friends. Each of them represented something recognised and fixed, which gave them an interest and an atmosphere. They belonged here and there, and their belongings coloured them, more perhaps even than their characters or achievements.

Achievement, indeed, was scarcely represented. There were two members of the House of Lords, neither of whom ever visited that assembly, and a member of the House of Commons, who never spoke there if he could possibly help it. There were a few undistinguished barristers, and some as yet undistinguished soldiers. To the world outside the circle to which these people mostly belonged, scarcely a name represented there would have been familiar; and yet in a similar gathering anywhere in England the names of many of them would have been known, and would have meant something.

What they would have meant, among other things, if worked back to beginnings, would have been the ownership of England. If the people in this room, most of them unimportant if tested by their capacity to achieve power among their fellows by unaided effort, had been taken as a centre, and the circle widened, and widened again by the inclusion of all those related by birth or marriage, it would eventually have covered all but a spot here and there of the map of the United Kingdom, and the great mass of the inhabitants of these islands would have been left outside.

In charging the whole of this particular assembly with a notable absence of achievement, exception must be made for the Bishop of the Diocese, who was there, however, as a visitor, not being in the habit of attending such gatherings of his flock in his pastoral capacity. Even he might not have reached his gaitered eminence if he had not belonged by birth to the sort of people represented here, for, in spite of the democratisation of the Church, the well-born clergyman, if he follows the lines of promotion and is not noticeably lacking in ability, still has a slight 'pull.'

The lines of promotion, however, are other than they were a generation or two ago. This bishop had begun his work in a large town parish, and had kept to the crowded ways. Hard work and a capacity for organisation are the road to success in the Church to-day. Rich country rectories must be looked at askance until they can be taken as a secondary reward, the higher prizes having been missed. Even when the prizes are gained, the highest of them no longer bring dignified leisure. A bishop is a hard-working official in these latter days, and, if overtaken by the natural desires of advancing years for rest and contemplation, must occasionally cast wistful eyes upon the reward he might have gained if he had run second in the race instead of first.

The Bishop of Meadshire was an uncle by marriage of Mrs. Carruthers, of Surley Park, who had brought him over, with other guests, to enjoy this, to him unwonted, scene. Cheerful and courteous, with a spare figure, an excellent digestion and a presumably untroubled conscience, he was well qualified to gain the fullest amount of benefit from such relaxations as a country house visit, with its usual activities and pastimes, affords.

He was standing near the door with his niece when the Graftons entered the room, and Grafton and Barbara and Young George were immediately introduced to him. This was done with the air of bringing together particular friends of the introducing party. Each would have heard much of the other, and would meet for the first time not as complete strangers.

The Bishop was, indeed, extremely cordial. A bright smile lit up his handsome and apostolic features, and he showered benignity upon Barbara and Young George when it came to their turn. "Then we've met at last," he said. "I've been hearing such a lot about you. Indeed, I may be said to have heard hardly anything about anybody else, since I've been at Surley."

Ella Carruthers had her hand on Barbara's shoulder. "I'm sure you're not disappointed in my new friends," she said, giving the girl an affectionate squeeze. "This one's the chief of them."

Barbara appeared a trifle awkward, which was not her usual habit. She liked Mrs. Carruthers, as did the whole family. They had all been together constantly during the past few weeks, ever since the returned wanderer had come over to the Abbey to call, and had shown herself a fit person to be taken immediately into their critical and exclusive society. She had triumphantly passed the tests. She was beautiful and gay, laughed at the same sort of jokes as they did, and made them, liked the same sort of books, and saw people in the same sort of light. She was also warm-hearted and impulsive, and her liking for them was expressed with few or no reserves. It had been amply responded to by all except Barbara, who had held off a little, she could not have told why, and would not have admitted to a less degree of acceptance of their new friend than her sisters. Perhaps Ella Carruthers had divined the slight hesitation, for she had made more of Barbara than of Caroline or Beatrix, but had not yet dissolved it.

As for the rest of them, they were always chanting her virtues and charm. For each of them she had something special. With Caroline she extolled a country existence, and didn't know how she could have kept away from her nice house and her lovely garden for so long. She was quite sincere in this. Caroline would soon have discovered it if she had been pretending. She did love her garden, and worked in it. And she led the right sort of life in her fine house, entertaining many guests, but never boring herself if they dwindled to one or two, nor allowing herself to be crowded out of her chosen pursuits. She read and sewed and played her piano, and was never found idle. Caroline and she were close friends.

Beatrix had made a confidant of her, and had received much sympathy. But she had told her outright that she could not have expected her father to act otherwise than he had, and Beatrix had taken it from her, as she would not have taken it from any one else.

Miss Waterhouse she treated as she was treated by her own beloved charges, with affection and respect disguised as impertinence. She was young enough and witty enough to be able to do so. Miss Waterhouse thought her position somewhat pathetic—a young girl in years, but with so much on her shoulders. She had come to think it admirable too, the way in which she fulfilled her responsibilities, which never seemed to be a burden on her. Her guardian, who was also her lawyer, advised her constantly and was frequently at Surley, but her bailiff depended on her in minor matters, and she was always accessible to her tenants, and beloved by them.

It was in much the same way that Grafton had come to regard her. In the way she lived her life as mistress of her large house, and of a property which, though it consisted of only half a dozen farms, would have over-taxed the capacity of many women, she was a paragon. And yet she was scarcely older than his own children—might have been his child in point of years—and had all the charm and light-heartedness of her youth. She had something more besides—a wise woman's head, quick to understand and respond. He was so much the companion of his own children that a friend of theirs was usually a friend of his. Many of his daughters' girl friends treated him in much the same way as if he had been Caroline and Beatrix's brother instead of their father. Ella Carruthers did. It was difficult sometimes to imagine that she was a widow and the mistress of a large house, so much did she seem to belong to the family group. In their united intercourse he had not had many opportunities of talking to her alone, and had never so far sought them. But on two or three occasions they had found themselves tÊte-À-tÊte for a time, and he had talked to her about what was filling his mind, which was Beatrix and her love-affair, and particularly her changing attitude towards himself.

She had taken his side warmly, and had given him a sense of pleasure and security in her sympathy. Also of comfort in what had become a considerable trouble to him. She knew how much Beatrix loved him, she said. She had told her so, and in any case she could not be mistaken. But she was going through a difficult time for a girl. He must have patience. Whichever way it turned out she would come back to him. How could she help it, he being what he had been to her all her life?

As to the possibility of its turning out in any way but one, she avowed herself too honest to give him hope, much as she would have liked to do so. Beatrix was in love with the man, and had not changed; nor would she change within the six months allowed her. Whether her lover would come for her again when the time was up was another question. She could tell no more than he. But he must not allow himself to be disappointed if he did. He had accepted him provisionally, and must be prepared to endorse his acceptance. Surely he would get used to the marriage, if it came off! And the mutual absorption of a newly-married couple did not last for ever. She could speak from experience there. She had adored her own guardian, in whose house she had been brought up from infancy. She fancied she must have loved him at least as much as most girls loved their own fathers; yet when she had been engaged to be married, and for a time afterwards, she had thought very little of him, and she knew now that he had felt it, though he had said nothing. But after a time, when she had wanted him badly, she had found him waiting for her, just the same as ever; and now she loved him more than she had done before.

Grafton was not unimpressed by this frank disclosure, though the not unimportant fact that the lady's husband had proved himself a rank failure in his matrimonial relations had been ignored in her telling of the story. And it would be a dismal business if the full return of his child to him were to depend upon a like failure on the part of the man she should marry. Certainly he didn't want that for her. If she should marry the fellow it was to be hoped that she would be happy with him, and he himself would do nothing to come between them. Nevertheless, the reminder that the fervour of love need not be expected to keep up to concert pitch, when the sedative effect of marriage had had time to cool it, did bring him some consolation, into which he did not look too closely. It would be soothing if the dear child were to discover that her old Daddy stood for something, after all, which she could not get even from her husband, and that he would regain his place apart, and be relieved of the hard necessity of taking in and digesting an alien substance in order to get any flavour out of her love for him. He never would and never could get used to the fellow; he felt that now, and told the sympathetic lady so. She replied that one could get used to anything in this life, and in some cases it was one's duty to do so. She was no mere cushiony receptacle for his grievances. She had a mind of her own, and the slight explorations he had made into it pleased and interested him. He was not so loud in his praises of her as his daughters, but it was plain that he liked to see her at the Abbey, and it was always safe to accept an invitation for him to Surley if he was absent when it was given.

Mrs. Carruthers was not riding that morning. Out of deference to her exalted guest and various others of weight and substance, invited to meet him, she was hunting on wheels. Some of them would view such episodes of the chase as could, with luck, be seen from the seats of a luxurious motor-car, but she was driving his lordship himself in her pony-cart, quite in the old style in vogue before the scent of the fox had begun to dispute its sway in the hunting-field with that of petrol. It was years since the Bishop had come as close as this to one of the delights of his youth, and he showed himself mildly excited by it, and talked to Barbara about hounds and horses in such a way as to earn from her the soubriquet of "a genuine lamb."

He was too important, however, to be allowed more than a short conversation with one of Barbara's age, and was reft from her before she could explore very far into the unknown recesses of a prelatical mind. She was rewarded, however, for the temporary deprivation—she had other opportunities on the following day—by coming in for Ella Carruthers's sparkling description of the disturbance caused in the clerical nest of Surley by her uncle's visit.

"When they heard he was really coming," she was saying to Grafton, "they redoubled their efforts. Poor young Denis—who really looks sweet as a curate, though more deliciously solemn than ever—was sent up with a direct proposal. Couldn't I let bygones be bygones for the good of the community? I said I didn't know what the community had to do with it, and I couldn't forgive the way they had behaved. He said they were sorry. I said they had never done or said a thing to show it. We fenced a little, and he went back to them. Would you believe it, they swallowed their pride and sent me a letter. I'll show it you. You never read such a letter. They asked me to dinner at the end of it,—to-night—and perhaps I should be able to bring his lordship. I thanked them for their letter, and refused their invitation—of course politely. I asked Denis to dinner last night, and they let him come, but I think he must have had a struggle for it, because he looked very unhappy. My uncle is going to see poor old Mr. Cooper this afternoon, and, of course, they'll make a dead set at him; but it will be a bedside scene, and that's all they're going to get out of it."

"Aren't you a trifle feline about the poor ladies?" asked Grafton.

"They are feline, if you like. Aren't they, Barbara?"

"They're spiteful old cats, if that's what you mean," said Barbara. "Did you ask Lord Salisbury to dinner?"

"No. I have an idea that my uncle wishes to have a rest from the clergy, though it's as much as his place is worth to say so. The darling old thing! He's thoroughly enjoying himself. I believe he would have hunted to-day, if I had pressed a mount upon him."

"Is Denis going to preach at him to-morrow?" asked Grafton.

"Yes, I suppose so. Mr. Mercer offered to do it in the afternoon, but Rhoda and Ethel refused. I got that out of Denis himself, who is too deliciously innocent and simple for words. If it weren't for Rhoda and Ethel I really think I should make love to my uncle to give him the living when poor old Mr. Cooper comes to an end. Perhaps he will in any case. A lot hangs upon Denis's sermon to-morrow."

"I expect Rhoda and Ethel have written it for him," said Barbara.

"Perhaps one of them will dress up and preach," suggested Young George.

Barbara looked at him fondly. "Not very good, Bunting dear," she said. "He does much better than that sometimes, Ella. He's quite a bright lad."

Caroline and Beatrix had no lack of society, seated in their saddles outside. Richard Mansergh, after vainly trying to get them to let him fetch them something to keep out the draught, went off elsewhere, but his place was taken by others. Bertie Pemberton came up with two of his sisters, all three of them conspicuous examples of the decorative value of hard cloth, and it was as if the loud pedal had suddenly been jammed down on a piano. Bertie himself, however, was not so vociferous as usual, and when his sisters suggested going inside said that he was quite happy where he was. This was on the further side of Beatrix, of whom he had already enquired whether anybody had brought over Mollie Walter. Nobody had, and he said it was a pity on such a day as this, but he hoped they'd have some fun after all. Nora and Kate, however, were not to go unaccompanied to their refreshment. Jimmy Beckley, perched on a tall horse, with an increased air of maturity in consequence, offered to squire them, and they went off with him, engaging him in loud chaff, to which he responded with consummate ease and assurance.

It was evident that Bertie Pemberton had something particular to say to Beatrix. His horse fidgeted and he made tentative efforts to get her to follow him in a walk. But Beatrix's mare was of the lazy sort, quite contented to stand still as long as it should be permitted her, and she refused to put her in motion, though she was not altogether incurious as to what the young man wished to disclose. She thought it probable, however, that he would make his attempt later on, if there should be any period of hanging about the covert side, and under those less conspicuous circumstances she should not refuse to listen to him.

Among the few hardy spirits who had come prepared to follow the hounds on foot was Maurice Bradby. Worthing had driven him over in his dog-cart and after a few cheery words with Caroline and Beatrix had gone inside. Bradby had not followed him, but as the girls were just then surrounded by a little group of people he had hung about on its skirts, evidently wishing to talk to them, but being too shy to do so.

This young man's diffidence had begun to arouse comment at the Abbey. They all liked him, and had shown him that they did. There were times when he seemed thoroughly at home with them, and showed qualities which endeared him to the active laughter-loving family. Young George frankly adored him, finding in him all he wanted for companionship, and with him he was at his ease, and even took the undisputed lead. But on the other hand Grafton found him hang heavy, on the few occasions when they had to be alone together. He was deferential, not in any way that showed lack of manly spirit, but so as to throw all the burden of conversation on his host. Grafton found it rather tiresome to sit with him alone after dinner. It was only when they were occupied together, in the garden or elsewhere, that Bradby seemed to take up exactly the right attitude towards him.

The girls came between their father and their brother. Barbara had altered her first opinion of him. There was still something of the boy in her; she shared as far as she was permitted in the pursuits of Bradby and Bunting, and all three got on well together. The two other girls found his diffidence something of a brake on the frank friendship they were ready to accord to their companions among young men. Beatrix was most outspoken about it. Of course he was not, in his upbringing or experience, like other young men whom they had known. In London, perhaps, they would not have wanted to make a particular friend of him. But here in the country he fitted in. Why couldn't he take the place they were ready to accord him, and not be always behaving as if he feared to be in the way?

Caroline was softer. She agreed that his shyness was rather tiresome, but thought it would wear off in time. It was better, after all, to have a young man who did not think too much of himself than one who would always have to be kept in his place. She found his love for nature refreshing and interesting, and something fine and genuine in him that made it worth while to cultivate him, and have patience. Beatrix would say, in answer to this, that she hadn't got enough patience, and doubted whether the results would make it worth while to exercise it. But Beatrix was a little oversharp in these days, and what she said needed not to be taken too seriously.

She saw Maurice Bradby standing at a little distance off, casting shy glances at them as if he wanted to make one of the group around them, but lacked the boldness to introduce himself into it, and felt a spurt of irritation against him. Caroline saw him too, and presently, when the group had thinned, walked her horse to where he was standing. He received her with a grateful smile, and they talked about the day's prospects and his chances of seeing the sport on foot, and hers of a good run.

The people who had been refreshing themselves indoors came out, mounted their horses or took to their carriages, cars and carts, while the huntsman led his bunched and trotting hounds down the drive, and the gay cavalcade followed them to the scene of their sport. The soft grey winter sky breathed mild moisture, the tree twigs were purple against it, and seemed already to be giving promise of spring, though the year was only just on the turn. No one there would have exchanged this mood of England's much abused climate for the flowery deceptions of the South, or even for the frosty sparkle of Alpine winters. It was a fine hunting morning, and they were all out to enjoy themselves, in the way that their forbears had enjoyed themselves for generations.