ip of wood from the towering
battlements. Here he was looking over a gate one day, doubtful and
wondering, when he heard a heavy step behind him, and glancing round
quickly saw it was old Morgan of the White House.

"Good afternoon, Master Lucian," he began. "Mr. Taylor pretty well, I
suppose? I be goin' to the house a minute; the men in the fields are
wantin' some more cider. Would you come and taste a drop of cider, Master
Lucian? It's very good, sir, indeed."

Lucian did not want any cider, but he thought it would please old Morgan
if he took some, so he said he should like to taste the cider very much
indeed. Morgan was a sturdy, thick-set old man of the ancient stock; a
stiff churchman, who breakfasted regularly on fat broth and Caerphilly
cheese in the fashion of his ancestors; hot, spiced elder wine was for
winter nights, and gin for festal seasons. The farm had always been the
freehold of the family, and when Lucian, in the wake of the yeoman,
passed through the deep porch by the oaken door, down into the long dark
kitchen, he felt as though the seventeenth century still lingered on. One
mullioned window, set deep in the sloping wall, gave all the light there
was through quarries of thick glass in which there were whorls and
circles, so that the lapping rose-branch and the garden and the fields
beyond were distorted to the sight. Two heavy beams, oaken but
whitewashed, ran across the ceiling; a little glow of fire sparkled in
the great fireplace, and a curl of blue smoke fled up the cavern of the
chimney. Here was the genuine chimney-corner of our fathers; there were
seats on each side of the fireplace where one could sit snug and
sheltered on December nights, warm and merry in the blazing light, and
listen to the battle of the storm, and hear the flame spit and hiss at
the falling snowflakes. At the back of the fire were great blackened
tiles with raised initials and a date.--I.M., 1684.

"Sit down, Master Lucian, sit down, sir," said Morgan.

"Annie," he called through one of the numerous doors, "here's Master
Lucian, the parson, would like a drop of cider. Fetch a jug, will you,
directly?"

"Very well, father," came the voice from the dairy and presently the girl
entered, wiping the jug she held. In his boyish way Lucian had been a
good deal disturbed by Annie Morgan; he could see her on Sundays from his
seat in church, and her skin, curiously pale, her lips that seemed as
though they were stained with s