with three strange ladies
in it drove by them. It stopped at the door of the New Inn,--as quaint
in build and even older than the New Inn of Clovelly. The ladies got
out, and one of them, to Imogen's great surprise, came forward and
extended her hand to Lionel.

"Mr. Young,--it is Mr. Young, isn't it? You've quite forgotten me, I
fear,--Mrs. Page. We met at St. Helen's two years ago when I stopped to
see my son. Let me introduce you to my daughter, the Comtesse de
Conflans, and Miss Opdyke, of New York."

Lionel could do no less than stop, shake hands, and present his sister,
whereupon Mrs. Page urged them both to come in for a few minutes and
have a cup of tea.

"We are here only till the evening-train," she explained,--"just to see
Westward Ho and get a glimpse of the Amyas Leigh country. And I want to
ask any quantity of questions about Clarence and his wife. What! you
are going out to the High Valley next week, and your sister too? Oh,
that makes it absolutely impossible for me to let you off. You really
must come in. There are so many messages I should like to send, and a
cup of tea will be a nice rest for Miss Young after her long walk."

"It isn't long at all," protested Imogen; but Mrs. Page could not be
gainsaid, and led the way upstairs to a sitting-room with a bay window
overlooking the windings of the Torridge, which was crammed with quaint
carved furniture of all sorts. There were buffets, cabinets,
secretaries, delightful old claw-footed tables and sofas, and chairs
whose backs and arms were a mass of griffins and heraldic emblems. Old
oak was the specialty of the landlady of this New Inn, it seemed, as
blue china was of the other. For years she had attended sales and poked
about in farmhouses and attics, till little by little she had
accumulated an astonishing collection. Many of the pieces were genuine
antiques, but some had been constructed under her own eye from wood
equally venerable,--pew-ends and fragments of rood-screens purchased
from a dismantled and ruined church. The effect was both picturesque and
unusual.

Mrs. Page seated her guests in two wide, high-backed chairs, rang for
tea, and began to question Lionel about affairs in the High Valley,
while Imogen, still under the influence of surprise at finding herself
calling on these strangers, glanced curiously at the younger ladies of
the party. The Comtesse de Conflans was still young, and evidently had
been very pretty, but she had a wor