d it, even down to little
two-year-old Philip.

Suppose this wonderful, queer lady, who was making a sketch of Nell, was
the new owner. In that case, it was Nell's duty to leave her at once.

"I want to ask you a question," said Nell.

"Yes--don't stir, please--ask me anything you like."

"Are you the new owner of my home?"

"I the new owner?" exclaimed Antonia. "Heavens! no! I own nothing except
this"--she clasped her colour-box and looked up with a face of ecstacy.
"I only want this," she said, "_and this_," she continued, waving her
hand with an impressive sweep which was meant to include both earth and
sky.

She claimed a good deal, Nell thought; but, after all, that did not
matter, as she had nothing to do with the feud.

"I'm glad you are not the owner," said Nell, "for, if you were, I should
have been obliged to leave you."

"Why so?"

"I and the others have sworn it solemnly round a bonfire."

The words were so unusual that Antonia was greatly amused.

"You don't like to leave the Towers, then?" she said.

"Like it?" replied Nell. "Would you, if you had lived here ever since
the tenth century?"

"Mercy, child! how venerable I'd be!" exclaimed Antonia. She smiled in
quite a tragic way--it was quite a new thing to see a smile on Antonia's
face.

Nell looked at her very gravely. Her own sweet grey eyes grew full of
tears.

"It will kill father," she said suddenly, in a smothered voice.

She swayed herself backwards and forwards as she spoke, in an ecstasy of
pain. Strange to say, she seemed to understand Antonia, and, still
stranger, Antonia understood her.

The priestess of art dropped her palette.

"Tell me about your father," she said, quickly; "tell me about yourself.
You and your people have lived here for years--centuries--and it breaks
your hearts to go? It's wonderfully artistic--it savours of mediaeval
romance. And you go for a creature like Susan Drummond--shallow as a
plate--no soul anywhere about her? She gets your rooms replete with
memories, and your dear briary avenues and your fir trees, and this
uncultured waste?"

"It's a paddock," interrupted Nell, who could not quite follow Antonia's
imagery.

"It's a waste," said Miss Bernard Temple, with fire. "The Towers is
untrammelled by man's vulgar restraint. Child, I do not even know your
name, but I think I understand your grief."

"You cannot," said Nell, with gentle dignity--"you are not a Lorrimer.
But I'm glad I didn't v