each as yellow as
a canary, and seemingly quite at home already in its native element.

Then there was the rose garden, where every variety of the queen of
flowers seemed to flourish, from the delicate Marechal Niel to the
sweet, oldfashioned, striped York and Lancaster. Archways and pillars
were covered with climbers and ramblers, a little untrained, but hanging
down in such glorious profusion that one almost approved of the neglect.
Round this garden was a high hedge of clipped holly, so that it was
sheltered from every wind, and the roses bloomed as if in a greenhouse.
Nor must we forget the peacocks, which were as much a feature of the old
house as the twisted chimneys, or the stone balls on the porch. There
were six of them, and the gorgeous sheen of their feathers as they
spread their tails in the sunshine was a sight worth remembering. In
fact, as Miss Russell often remarked, they gave a finishing touch to the
whole scene, and made the Manor look more than ever like a medieval
picture.

The village of Haversleigh was only ten minutes' walk from the lodge
gates. It consisted of one long row of quaint black-and-white cottages,
with thatched roofs, and gardens so gay with flowers that they seemed to
be overflowing into the road, and pinks and pansies were coming up
between the cobblestones of the street. At the end stood the beautiful
ancient church, built in days when each artisan was a master of his
craft, and made his work a labour of love. Strangers often came from a
distance to admire the delicate tracery of the windows, the exquisite
carving of the pillars, and the splendid old oak choir stalls that had
formed part of a tenth-century abbey. At the west end hung a collection
of banners, won by Monica's ancestors in many a hard-fought battle, and,
all tattered and faded as they were, still bearing tribute to the
glories of the past. There were monuments, too, in memory of the
Courtenays: stone effigies of knights in armour, lying under carved
canopies emblazoned with their coats-of-arms; stiff ladies and gentlemen
of Tudor times, with starched ruffs and buckled shoes; and one lovely
marble figure, by a forgotten sculptor, of a young daughter of the house
who had perished during the Great Plague. The ruthless hands that had
chipped and spoiled many of the other monuments had spared this one, and
the beautiful, calm face seemed to be resting in tranquil sleep,
patiently waiting for the summons to arise to immorta