A sleety¹ rain was falling, but, despite the cold, St. Quentin’s couch was drawn³ up close beneath the mullioned windows of the library, from which he could look out upon the green expanse of Park and the mighty⁴ trees, which had seen generations of his family reign⁵ their reign at the great old Castle, and die.
The present owner’s face was sad enough, as he gazed out on the splendid prospect⁶, beautiful even in the bareness of winter and the dreariness⁷ of rain.
At his elbow lay an invalid⁸ writing-desk and a sheet of paper, on which the words were written: “Dear Fane—Cut the timber from....” He had gone no further, though he had started that letter to his agent when Sir Algernon had left him an hour ago.
A sentence kept rising up before him whenever he took up his pen to write, a sentence
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 which, though spoken more than five years ago, was fresh as though he heard it yesterday.
“We’ve never let the timber go, my boy.”
Yes, he remembered that his father had paid his, St. Quentin’s, debts by care and economy, but without sacrificing any of the splendid trees, which were the pride of the county. “We’ve never let the timber go, my boy.” He turned his head with an impatient sigh and flung the paper down again, staring from the rain-washed window gloomily.
As he looked aimlessly enough, something crossed his line of vision that made him start into a sudden interest and life.
Two ladies, wrapped in waterproofs⁹ and wrestling with refractory¹⁰ umbrellas, passed beneath his window, carrying a large basket. In spite of

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