oting something about "love casting out fear," when
he suddenly corrected himself, and grew silent. In that silence they
swept on to the gates of Kingcombe Holm.

It was a place--more like an ancient manorial farm than a gentleman's
residence--nestled snugly in one of those fairy valleys which are found
here and there among the bleak wastes of Dorsetshire coast scenery--the
richer for the barrenness of all around. Before and behind the house
rose sudden acclivities, thick with autumn-tinted trees. On another side
was a smooth, curving, wavy hill, bare in outline, with white dots of
grazing sheep floating about upon its green. The Holm, with its garden
and park, lay on a narrow plain of verdurous beauty, at the bottom of
the valley. Nothing was visible beyond it, save a long, bare, terraced
range of hill, and the sky above all. There was no other habitation in
sight, except a tiny church, planted on one acclivity, and two or three
labourers' cottages, in the doors of which a few rolypoly, open-eyed
children stood, poking their fingers in their mouths, and staring
intensely at Agatha.

"Oh, what a delicious nest," she cried--overcome with excitement at her
first view of Kingcombe Holm, where, however, there was not a creature
visible but the great dog, that barked a furious welcome from the
courtyard, and the peacock, that strutted to and fro before the blank
windows, sweeping his draggled tail. "Are they at home, I wonder? Will
they all be waiting for us?"

"In the drawing-room, most likely. It is my father's way. He receives
there all strangers--new-comers, I mean. We shall see nobody till then."

"Don't be too sure of that, brother Nathanael," said a quick, lively
voice. "So, ho! Dunce, hold still, do'ee! You used to be as precise as
the Squire himself, bless his heart! Now then, N. L. Jump down!"

The speaker of all this had come flying out of the hall-door--a vision
of flounces, gaiety, and heartiness, had given the pony a few pats, or
rather slaps, _en passant_, and now stood balancing herself on one of
the spokes of the wheel, and leaning over into the carriage.

[Illustration: Arrival at Kingcombe Holm p148]

"Is that you, Harrie? Agatha, this is my sister Mrs. Dugdale."

And Agatha found herself face to face (literally speaking, too, for
"Harrie" kissed her) with a merry-looking, pretty woman, of a style a
little too _prononcee_ perhaps, for her features were on a similar mould
to Major Harper's. Still,