ancies he's rather a
swell, and says he's descended from William the Conqueror's sea-cook,
or something of that sort. I don't want to go and see them; but I
don't mind having some grub there, if they'll lend us a boat."

"My senses! you ought to feel very much honoured at the thought of
going to lunch at Grenford Manor," said Helen, laughing.

"I'm sure I don't," answered her cousin. "I'd sooner have a feed in
old 'Duster's' shop at Melchester."

"Well, that's what we'll do," said Valentine. "We'll take a kettle and
some cups with us, and tea, and all that sort of thing, and go up the
river as far as Starncliff, and there we'll camp out and have a jolly
time."

With some reluctance the proposal was agreed upon. Had the company
foreseen the chain of events which would arise directly and indirectly
from this memorable picnic, they might have made up their minds to
spend the day at Brenlands.

CHAPTER V.

AN UNLUCKY PICNIC.

"The tom-cat, whom his mistress called 'My little son,' was a great
favourite; he could raise his back, and purr, and could even throw out
sparks from his fur if it were stroked the wrong way."--_The Ugly
Duckling_.

"Now, Jack, do behave yourself!" cried Valentine, as the
basket-carriage turned through two imposing-looking granite gate-posts
into a winding drive which formed the approach to Grenford Manor.
Jack, as usual, seemed to grow particularly obstreperous just when
circumstances demanded a certain amount of decorum, and at that moment
he was kneeling on the narrow front seat belabouring Prince with the
cushion.

"Well," he answered, turning round, "we must drive up to the door in
style; if we come crawling in like this, they'll think we're ashamed of
ourselves."

As he spoke, a curve in the drive brought the house into view. It was
a big, square building, with not the slightest touch of green to
relieve the monotony of the rigid white walls, and level rows of
windows, which seemed to have been placed in position by some precise,
mathematical calculation. A boy was lounging about in front of the
porch, with his hands in his pockets, kicking gravel over the
flower-beds.

"O Val! you said Raymond wasn't at home," murmured Helen.

"Well, Aunt Mab said he was going to London; he must have put off his
visit."

Raymond Fosberton turned at the sound of the carriage-wheels, and
sauntered forward to meet the visitors. He had black hair, and a very
pink and white complex