"This isn't Easter, ducky," she added. "We want a star, not a cross."
Max smiled at Win, an indulgent, rather amused smile, and when the proper frame had been substituted, came back to the pulpit.
"Tell me," said Win, indicating the stone vault. "What are those little pointed things up there?"
"You mean the limpet shells?" asked Max, looking up.
"Are they shells?" said Win in amazement. "They looked it, but I couldn't imagine how shells could be scattered about up there."
"Some thousand years ago when the original builders quarried this stone from the Jersey shore, they didn't trouble to scrape off the limpets that clung to it. Nobody has removed them since; now it would seem sacrilege to do so."
"A thousand years!" repeated Win in awe. He stopped work for a moment to look at the pointed shells on the roof.
"Does jar a fellow and makes him feel mighty transitory and insignificant, doesn't it?" commented Max, with a friendly glance of understanding. "I think there's no place quite like this church. The Manor lies in its parish and Uncle Dick would know if a single limpet was knocked off. The only time I ever saw him really angry was once when some Americans—I'm an American, too, you know, so I can tell this story—tried to bribe the verger to scrape one down for them. There was rather a row and Uncle was in a fine fizz.
"There's one interesting thing common to all these old churches," Max went on, seeing that Win appreciated the place. "The island is divided into twelve parishes. From the church of each there was originally a road, leading directly to the sea. In feudal times, a criminal was safe if he took sanctuary in the church and by the old custom, after he had abjured his crime, he could go down by this one road to the shore and leave the island. But if he strayed never so little aside, he lost the benefit of the sanctuary and was liable to the law. Just imagine some old robber or cut-throat marching down his path to the sea, escorted by the churchwardens, with other men watching his every step, ready to seize him if he swerved. Some of these sanctuary roads are still the main highways."
"I think the island history is so interesting," said Win. "I suppose it is a fact that Prince Charles did take refuge here?"
"No doubt of it," Max replied, looking critically at the almost completed pulpit decorations. "Indeed, there is a story that he was entertained at Laurel Manor. Ask Uncle about it," he added, not noticing Win's start of interest. "He's awfully keen on that legend. I suppose it is very likely true though I don't know that there is any real proof. There, do you think her ladyship will approve our efforts? Excuse me,—Connie wants her star put in place."
Left alone, Win stood thinking hard. So Prince Charles was reputed to have visited Laurel Manor! What if that chance letter were the proof? If so, was there not more in its message than confirmation of the prince's stay? One thing was certain—hemustget acquainted with Colonel Lisle.
So many industrious hands soon completed their task. After the gay workers departed, Connie lingered for a last look.
"Come and see it to-morrow morning," she said to the three. "Probably you'll wish to go into town at eleven, but come here for the early service at six."
Edith looked doubtful. "Sister planned to go to St. Aubin's," she said.
"I couldn't come alone," said Frances, her disappointment showing in her face.
"I'll come with you," offered Win so unexpectedly that his sister frankly stared.
"Good!" said Constance. "There'll be no music and only candle-light, but you'll love it. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
That very evening Fran was forced to admit that a Jersey Christmas had its compensations. The doors of the back parlor, mysteriously locked for days, were opened and in the room, gay with holly, mistletoe, and laurestinus, appeared a most delightful little Christmas tree, itself rather foreign in appearance since it was a laurel growing in a big pot. Real English holly concealed the base and merry tapers twinkled a welcome.
Estelle had spent much time and thought, coupled with anxious fears lest these young Americans whose lives seemed so sunny, might not care for so simple a pleasure. Their appreciation, not in the least put on for the occasion, quite repaid her. Inexpensive little gifts adorned the tree, each bearing a number.
"Draw a slip," commanded Roger, appearing before his mother with a box."Take a chance and see what you'll get."
When all the slips were distributed, Roger as instructed by Estelle, took a gift at random from the tree and called its attached number.
"Who has eight?" he demanded.
"Here," said Win, giving up his slip in exchange for the tiny package, and presently laughing heartily over an absurd mechanical mouse. Ridiculous misfits in the presents made the distribution all the funnier, and the rejoicing was great when Roger, who didn't believe in washing his hands without being told to do so, drew a wee cake of soap. He took it good-naturedly and considered as an added joke, Estelle's hasty and shocked assurance that it was not meant especially for him.
Strange to say, some packages appeared on that tree of which Estelle was ignorant, conveyed by Roger to the proper persons. Edith was rendered speechless with joy over several lovely gifts, and tears filled Estelle's eyes. Nor were Nurse and Annette forgotten. The Thaynes had certainly lived up to the American reputation for generosity.
Then Nurse brought a big bowl filled with darting blue flames. The courageous shut one or both eyes, stuck in a fearful finger and extracted a fig or a fat raisin. Egg-nog and roasted Italian chestnuts completed Estelle's entertainment save for the holiday dinner of roast beef and plum pudding to follow on the morrow.
Unexpected by Estelle, her plans were supplemented by a group of parish school-children, led by the old organist, who came through the streets, singing Christmas carols: "God save you, merry gentlemen," "Good King Wenceslaus" and "As Joseph was a-waukin'"
In fascination Fran lingered on the steps long after the singers were gone, pleased with her distribution of pennies from her mother's purse and biscuit provided by Estelle. Far in the distance she could hear their voices. Yes, after all, an English Christmas had its points.
Next morning, Nurse's call seemed incredibly early to Frances, though she found the whole household awake and exchanging greetings. Mrs. Thayne decided to accompany Win and Fran, and Roger alone remained in bed.
The stars still shone brightly, making it seem the middle of the night, save for the hurrying groups bound for church, some still singing carols or hymns.
"It's like October weather at home, isn't it, Mother?" said Frances as they walked on through the crisp, clear air. "See, there are lights in the windows and people leaving lanterns in the porch."
The moment she entered, Frances understood what Connie meant by not missing that service for "anything in the world," and Win felt it even more keenly, being by nature more impressionable.
The utter quiet, broken only by a distant wash of waves,—waves that sometimes broke over the stones in the churchyard,—the candles in the chancel, throwing into high relief Constance's Christmas star and touching with light the jonquils banking steps and altar rail; the dusk in the nave of the church half-revealing scattered groups of people as they knelt in silence under the arched vault where clung the limpets dead a thousand years,—all contributed to the age-old Christmas miracle.
"I feel as though I'd never realized what Christmas meant before," thought Win, and somewhat the same feeling came to Frances as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom and she discerned among the kneeling figures her fellow-workers of the day before. Half-way down the nave was the family from the Manor, Constance and Max on either side of a tall gray-haired gentleman. Fran recognized him as the one who had spoken to Win that day in the Royal Square.
Win recognized him also, knew him to be Colonel Lisle and was quickly reminded of that curious old document, as yet a mystery. How he hoped Miss Connie's school treat would afford an opportunity to meet the owner of the Manor and to take some step toward the solution of that puzzle.
As the service began, Frances stole a glance at the windows banked with glossy laurel and holly, over which she and Edith had worked with Rose LeCroix and her sister Muriel. Just because she had helped do something for that little church in a foreign land, Fran experienced a sudden blessed feeling of belonging a bit. A pleasant glow crept into her heart, a sense of the spirit that makes the world akin at Christmas.
"I have helped you very nicely all the morning, Connie, and I hope you appreciate my goodness. But as for messing about the lawn with a bun worry in full blast,—thank you, Maxfield is not on. One doesn't want to let one's self in for everything."
"Your goodness isn't such as to alarm me," sighed Constance, casting a worried glance about the Manor green. "You're in no danger of acquiring saintship. Dad has balked, too. What'll I do alone?"
"Being on toast yourself, why do you want to have me there?" said Max mischievously. "Aren't all the Sunday school mistresses coming to help and didn't you ask those nice American kiddies?"
"I did, and that's another reason why I want you," retorted Connie, flying to adjust to her better satisfaction the basket of narcissus decorating the chief table. "Max, I don't know where to have you. Since you came from the States, I can't make out whether you are English or American. Here you are shying either at an English school treat or at some nice American children. Which is it?"
"Neither, I think," Max replied after a survey of the close-clipped lawn, boasting that velvety turf which only centuries of care can perfect. Great groups of laurel proudly proclaimed the right of the Manor to its name; carefully trimmed hedges of yew and box protected borders already gay with spring flowers, and beyond the grounds shimmered the sea. Max's glance was one of affection, for this was the scene of many happy boyhood days.
"I think I'd shy just as quickly at an American tea-fight," he said at length. "As for being neither English nor American, I love both countries. I would certainly be loyal to my own, but I would also take up arms for England, if the time ever came that she needed me and the two duties didn't conflict."
"You're a duck," said Constance promptly. "Come, take up arms and carry a basket of buns for me this afternoon."
"Too many petticoats coming," said Max. "I'm afraid of those freaks from the rectory. But I'll agree to furnish a substitute who will more than take my place. The kiddies will be thrilled to a peanut. Come now, let me off?"
"I suppose so," agreed Constance. "Don't bother about letting me down softly. Trot off and do anything you think you have to do. Here are the Marqué children already. And there come the Thaynes."
"I will perform a vanishing act," said Max quickly. "Connie, I really am booked for an hour with Uncle Dick, but I'll send that substitute. Watch for him."
Constance looked after him suspiciously, but Max was already half across the sunken garden, whistling to Tylo as he went.
"Are we too early, Miss Connie?" asked Frances as they came up.
"Just on the dot," replied Connie, greeting them all. "The children are arriving. We will play games first and then have tea. Excuse me, please, while I go and speak to the Reverend Fred."
Constance departed to greet the curate thus disrespectfully designated, a youthful individual of rather prepossessing appearance. Just behind him appeared Rose and Muriel LeCroix and other girls whom Frances knew at school.
Soon the children came thick and fast, shy youngsters propelled by older brothers and sisters, independent groups, a few babies in arms, a scattering of older people.
Two white-draped tables by the yew hedge were the target for the children's eyes as they wondered what those linen-covered baskets concealed. There would be tea of course, buns in plenty, possibly cake.
Presently the children, poked and pulled into line were started playingLondon Bridge, two of the biggest girls forming the bridge.
For a moment Frances stood apart, watching the marching, shouting youngsters, scrubbed till they shone, clothed in clean though often clumsy garments and heavy shoes. No great poverty was indicated by their apparel, and some, evidently of French origin, were dressed with real taste and daintiness. These were also remarkable for a more vivacious appearance than the stolid little Anglo-Saxons. Some few were of striking beauty.
As one game succeeded another, the children grew less stiff and self-conscious. The Reverend Fred was joining in the sport with conscientious zeal, as were his two sisters and Edith and Miss Connie. Fran caught the contagion and found herself flying about the Manor lawn, tying a handkerchief over one child's eyes to lead in Blindman's Buff, helping another group play King of the Castle, finally organizing a game of Drop the Handkerchief.
With amused surprise she saw Roger actually helping Muriel LeCroix with a number of the smallest children, and this fact so impressed Frances that she failed to note Win's absence.
Her brother was not far away. Had Frances been nearer the opening in the hedge, leading into the sunken garden in its season full of roses, she might have seen an interesting picture, for with great glee, Win was helping prepare for appearance Max's promised substitute.
Down in the rose-garden, where an old sundial marked "only the sunny hours," the afternoon shadows grew long. The older people, somewhat exhausted by strenuous play, seated the children in a big circle ready for tea. From the Manor emerged Yvonne, Pierre, and Paget, Constance's old nurse, armed with shiny copper cans, to fill cups for distribution.
Frances seized a basket of buns and for a time was so occupied with playing Lady Bountiful to a host of little hands, now rather grimy, that it seemed quite natural to be sharing in this unusual festivity. But as she was hurrying back to the table to refill her empty basket, she met Edith on a similar errand. Suddenly it struck her as very odd that she should be helping.
"This is the funniest affair I ever saw," she confided merrily.
"Why?" asked the puzzled Edith, lifting grave eyes to look at her."Don't you give the Sunday school children treats in America?"
"Oh, yes," admitted Frances, "but we'd never fill them up on weak tea and buns. They'd expect ice-cream and cake."
Edith looked much shocked. "Ices are very dear," she remarked, "and not fitting for these children. Would you really serve ices in winter?" she asked incredulously.
"On the very coldest day of the year," asserted Frances emphatically. "Oh, America is sodifferent, Edith! Why there's scarcely a town so tiny that you can't buy ice-cream any time of the day or any time of year."
"It must indeed be different," Edith agreed. Basket refilled, she returned to her charges.
For a minute Frances lingered, looking around at the circle of hilarious children, each with a mug, more or less precariously clasped, each stuffing big plummy buns; looked at the older people so anxiously attending to them. Yes, it was very different, very English, but also very interesting.
As Frances passed the entrance to the sunken garden, her basket filled this time by solid-looking pieces of cake, she heard her name.
"Fran," came Win's voice, "call Tylo. Get him to come out on the lawn."
Frances called. She could see no one in the garden, only hear amused voices trying to induce Tylo to answer the summons.
"He won't start," said Win again. "Ask Miss Connie to whistle for him,Fran."
On receiving Fran's message, Constance looked puzzled.
"I'd as soon Tylo would stop away," she said. "The kiddies may not fancy him begging for their cake. Still, I'll call."
At the summons from his mistress, Tylo instantly came, causing a sudden silence among the chattering children, silence succeeded by wild shrieks of pleasure.
The beach dog emerged from the garden wearing a wreath of roses around his neck, with an open pink silk parasol fastened to his collar and tipped at a fashionable and coquettish angle over his head and holding firmly in his mouth the handle of a basket filled with as varied an assortment of English "sweets" as Max could secure in his hasty gallop into St. Helier's.
Connie, too, gave an exclamation of laughter. "Oh, look at my best Paris brelly!" she groaned. "Max stole that. Yvonne never gave it to him."
Fully conscious that he held the center of the stage, Tylo advanced, waving his tail and casting amiable glances upon the children as they came crowding around, buns and cake forgotten. He seemed perfectly to understand what was expected and held the basket until the last sugar plum was secured by little searching hands, then employed to caress the bearer. Max's substitute certainly scored the greatest hit of the Manor "bun worry."
From their seclusion in the rose-garden, the two conspirators watchedTylo's successful appearance.
"Let's come in and wash," said Max, seeing that no further responsibility remained to them. "Or are you keen on a bun worry? I like them, like them awfully, you know, but somehow, I'm afraid Uncle Dick may be lonely. I feel it's my duty to look him up."
Win would have seen through this flimsy excuse without the betrayal of Max's merry eyes, but the proposal chanced to be what he most wished to do. Very gladly he followed Max through the gardens to a side entrance to the house, where they went up to Max's room, a high oak-paneled chamber that would have been sombre were it not for three sunny mullioned casements overlooking the sea. Cases crowded with books stood by the fireplace, fishing rods, cricket bats and oars decorated the walls.
"Those aren't mine," said Max, noticing Win's glance as he stood drying his hands; "only the skiis and racquets. This was Richard's room, Uncle Dick's only son. He was a subaltern in the British army, just twenty when he was killed in the charge on Majuba Hill. They have always given me his room at the Manor. I fancy Uncle liked to have it occupied by a boy again."
"Colonel Lisle himself must have done some fighting," observed Win."How did he lose his arm?"
"For years he was an officer in India. He lost his arm defending theKhyber Pass against the Afghans."
Max took his guest down the main staircase to the great entrance hall, with its high raftered roof, and stone floor half covered by valuable Oriental rugs. Suits of shining armor lent glints of light; curious spears, ancient swords and firearms, many of them very old, were fastened on walls dark with age. Win stopped to look at the carved mantel over the great fireplace, sporting the leopards of Jersey, the Lisle coat of arms and the date 1509.
"Imagine living in a house built all those centuries ago," he sighed."This is older than the library, isn't it?"
"Somewhat," replied Max. "The wing here is the oldest part of the house. Let's come to Uncle's study. I fancy he'll be there."
Colonel Lisle was lounging near the fire, but appeared very willing to put aside his book and welcome the two.
"And have you had tea, Uncle?" Max inquired. "We haven't, and I could do nicely with a cup."
"With all those gallons of tea on the lawn, it is a pity if an able-bodied young gentleman couldn't secure one cup," said the Colonel smiling. "Now you mention it, I believe I have had none either. Ring the bell by all means and order it. I was absorbed in verifying some points of old Norman law," he added to Win. "Our islands have an interesting history."
"Win is pleased that Prince Charles has left his mark on Jersey," observed Max, giving the bell-pull a vigorous twitch. "Tell him, Uncle, about his stopping here."
"Such is the legend handed down from father to son," replied the Colonel. "The story goes that the prince was brought to the Manor immediately after landing in Jersey. Just where he landed and how he was conveyed here is not known, but his stay was short. The owner of the Manor at that date, another Richard Lisle,—he whose portrait hangs in the library,—was an ardent Royalist who would have risked everything to serve his prince. Authorities agree that Charles spent the period of his stay in one of the castles, some say Orgueil, others Elizabeth. Probably the Manor roof sheltered him but for a few hours. I should very much like to see the legend of his stop in this house authenticated beyond question. Max tells me you are fond of books," the speaker continued. "After tea, I will show you some of our special treasures."
Win's face, already alight with interest, grew even more responsive to this offer, yet as the tea came, he felt unaccountably stupid and idiotic. Utter disgust with himself filled his mind to think he couldn't get to the point then and there of telling his kind host about that letter he had discovered.
Max noticed that Win was ill at ease, attributed it to shyness or perhaps awe of the Colonel, who was, as Max put it, "a bit impressive till a fellow knew him," and tried to help matters by talking nonsense that amazed Win and evidently amused the Colonel. Gradually, as he saw that Max was not in the least afraid of the dignified owner of the Manor, Win began to feel less tongue-tied.
Presently came a sound of gay voices, a tap at the door and Constance, the girls, and Roger entered.
"The tea-party is gone and in its place is peace," said Connie. "Daddy dear, I want you to meet Frances and Edith. And this is Roger. Max, why didn't you have tea with us and the kiddies?"
"Because of buns," said Max. "My bun-eating days are past."
"Not so long past!" retorted Constance with a mischievous smile. "Not so many years ago that I bribed you with a penny bun to steal a tooth for me out of a skull in the Capuchin church! He did it, too," she added to the girls, laughing delightedly at this charge. "You haven't been in Rome? The Capuchin monks have a church there with some holy earth brought from Jerusalem. Years ago,—they don't do it now, because modern sanitary laws have invaded Rome,—the monks who died were buried in this earth. Only of course as the centuries passed, there wasn't room for them all, so the monks longest buried had to get up and give place to others. Their bones were arranged in nice neat patterns on the walls, and the skulls heaped in piles. It was a tooth from one of these skulls that I fancied. Max ate the bun and stole the tooth for me, but Daddy wouldn't let me keep it and made Max put it back."
"Oh, how could you ever want such a thing, Miss Connie!" exclaimedEdith, shuddering with horror.
"I wonder, why did I?" said Constance reflectively. "It certainly doesn't appeal to me now. Mother was shocked; she disinfected everything that tooth had touched. Are you through tea, Daddy? I want to take the girls into the library."
Once again in the old book-room, Win recovered his self-possession in admiration of its treasures of illuminated missal and manuscript. His interest pleased his host, who ended by cordially inviting the boy to visit the Manor library whenever and as often as he chose to come. Win's genuine delight over this permission touched the Colonel, who from his own physical handicap, guessed that life was not always smooth for Win.
Win's pleasure arose not merely from the enjoyment of the library itself but because he would surely grow better acquainted with the Manor family and have a more favorable opportunity to show his discovery in the old Psalter.
He was very quiet on the way home and scarcely spoke while Fran was giving her mother a graphic account of the afternoon. Win hardly knew she was talking until his attention was caught by a dramatic remark.
"Miss Connie told us something so exciting, Mother," Fran was saying. "Roger asked her if there was a ghost. He blurted it right out and I was quite mortified, because you know if they did have one and were sensitive, it would have seemed impolite. But Miss Connie said right away that the Manor had all modern improvements, including a well-behaved and most desirable ghost. Then she and Mr. Max looked at each other and laughed. She said the haunted room was above the library and promised to give us a chance to investigate some day. I wanted dreadfully to ask about secret stairs,—you remember what that boy at Orgueil said—but perhaps when we are looking for the ghost there will be a chance to speak of the stairs."
"Indeed, you've had a most interesting afternoon," agreed Mrs. Thayne, "the discovery of a haunted room at the Manor being not the least."
"And what have you done all by yourself,poorMother?" said Frances, suddenly sympathetic and affectionate.
"Part of the afternoon I was out and since then I have been talking with Estelle. If she only felt she could, it would be so much better for her to go more among people, for the constant effort to be brave when she is so much alone, is very wearing. She seems so pathetically grateful that we chanced to come to her this winter instead of other less congenial lodgers. Sometime I hope she will speak frankly of just how they are situated and whether she has plans beyond this season, for I might be able to further them. And I hope, too, I shall succeed in placing the something familiar that always strikes me in Estelle. Have you ever noticed it, Fran? To my surprise, Win said the other day that Estelle reminded him of some one."
"No," said Fran. "I never noticed it. But I might ask Edith whether they have any relatives in the United States."
"That could do no harm," assented Mrs. Thayne thoughtfully. "Since Win spoke of it also, the resemblance must be to some one we know over there."
Frances and her mother went away but Win sat thinking for some moments. The mention of secret stairs recalled to him, though he could not say why, that odd dream twice experienced since he came to Jersey, of a search in a narrow unfamiliar passage, with unknown companions, for something unspecified.
With a start he finally roused himself and went upstairs. Before going to bed he read again the copy of Richard Lisle's letter.
"There's more to this than just the coming of the prince," he thought. "That's a fact, but if that 'safe place' can be discovered, I'll warrant we shall find the Spanish Chest and whatever 'relicks' Richard and his 'Sonne' put into it."
A few days after the school treat, Maxfield Hamilton was sauntering slowly across the Manor grounds. The January sky above shone blue as in a New England June, gay crocuses starred the short green grass, snowdrops and bluebells were already budded. From heights unknown floated the song of a skylark; in the holly hedge sat an English robin.
Max heard the skylark but did not notice the robin as he stopped at the gates to look down to the sea, stretching to shining horizons under the afternoon sun. His face was thoughtful and rather sober.
The robin gave a little cheep and Max turned to discover the bird almost at his elbow, a tiny scrap of olive feathers and bright red breast, considering him with soft wise eyes, head on one side.
"Hello, old chap," Max remarked. "What doyouthink of this world?"
From the tone, the robin might have inferred that the speaker's opinion was anything but favorable. Considering him for a second, he concluded him inoffensive and began to peck at the glowing holly berries.
Max wandered slowly through the gates and across the Manorhold to the shore, distant at this point about a quarter of a mile. Two or three stone cottages with picturesque straw-thatched roofs lay near the cliffs, property of the Manor and usually occupied by employees.
With the thoughtful expression still on his face, Max passed the cottages to stop on the edge of the cliffs already showing yellow with gorse. Should the tide serve, he had it in mind to revisit a haunt of his boyhood. A moment's scrutiny showed him right in thinking that the tide was on the ebb and he started rapidly down a rough, rather slippery path. As he rounded an outlying rock he came full on Roger Thayne.
Sprawled flat on the sloping cliff, Roger was watching so intently the doings of a spider that he did not look up until a shadow fell squarely across the web.
"That you, Roger?" said Max. "Alone? Where are Win and the girls?"
"I don't know," replied Roger, flushing uncomfortably. "That is, I don't know where the girls are."
"Win's not ill, I hope?"
"No, he isn't." Roger rolled over to look at his visitor. The young face wore a pleasant smile and the gray eyes were friendly, but somehow Roger had a suspicion that Mr. Max wasn't the sort to approve outright truancy.
"Win's all right," he added evasively. "He's studying or something."
A queer little expression crossed Max's lips. "Then since you have a holiday,—well-deserved, no doubt,—come on exploring with me."
Roger was on his feet in a second, the arrow of reproof glancing off unnoted. "Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Oh, just down here a few rods. We may have to hold up for the tide. It won't be low water for some time yet."
The faint path presently ended in piles of red granite, still wet from the sea, in places slippery with vraic, as the Jerseymen call the seaweed used as fertilizer for their land.
"We shall have to stop a bit," said Max, after a short steep descent. As he spoke he sat down and began to crush a bit of vraic between his fingers.
"This seaweed is one of the biggest assets the farmers have," he said to Roger. "You'll enjoy being here in February when the great vraic harvest comes. The farmers go down to the shore with carts and a sort of sickle. At low tide the southern shore is black with people cutting the seaweed from the rocks. The carts are used to carry it up beyond tide-mark. Men, women and young people all turn out and it's one of the sights of the island. The harvest lasts for several weeks and for the first few days there is a continual picnic with dancing and all sorts of jollifications."
"But I've often seen men gathering seaweed on the beach," said Roger."It isn't February yet."
"They are gathering the loose weed that is washed ashore. Any one may take that between the hours of sunrise and sunset, but he must stop at sound of the sunset gun. The cutting from the rocks is regulated by a hallowed custom. In June there's a second harvest when only the poor people may cut the vraic for a few weeks. After they have had their turn anybody may cut it till the last of August."
As he concluded, Max threw away the seaweed and picked up one of the abundant black flint pebbles. For some moments he amused himself by striking sparks from it with the back of a knife blade.
"I haven't lost the knack," he remarked. "By the way, have you found any flint knives? They turn up occasionally, though more often inland than in a place like this. They are relics of the days when the Druids were in Jersey. You've seen the burial mounds, haven't you,—the Dolmens?"
"I have," said Roger briefly. "In Bill Fish's company. Liked the stones all right enough, but Bill can't talk, you know. He expounds."
Max grinned. "Bad Writ, that," he agreed. "Come along. We can get through now."
[Illustration: THEY CAME UPON THE LOVELIEST OF LITTLE BEACHES]
Climbing carefully around a slippery projecting rock, its base yet submerged, they came upon the loveliest of lovely little beaches, in shape almost a semi-circle, the water forming the bisector and the frowning red cliffs the arc. Near the centre of the half-circle stood two tall pinnacles of red granite. Behind them yawned an entrance about five feet high and under this Max bent his tall head. Roger followed and uttered a whistle of pleasure and amazement.
They stood in a large cave, floored by fine bright yellow sea sand, broken irregularly by out-croppings of rose-pink rock, sand and rock alike wet and glistening. Away to the back of the cave, Roger saw that the floor rose higher. The roof was iridescent with green and yellow lichens; pebbles of jasper, cornelian and agate strewed the sand.
In the twelve years of his existence, Roger had never seen anything like this and surprise rendered him inarticulate.
"Some cave!" he commented at length. "Look, Mr. Max, what are these?"
"Oh, haven't you met any sea-anemones? The pools are full of them.Jolly little beggars."
Roger was naturally less enthusiastic over the charming water-gardens than the girls when they chanced upon them, but he was considerably interested in the numerous and varicolored snails, their shells bright green or delicate pink, truly entrancing to pick up and examine. By the time Roger finished a somewhat minute inspection his companion was out of sight.
"Hello!" he shouted in some concern.
"Right-oh!" came a quiet reply.
Bather abashed by the startling echoes he had evoked, Roger climbed over fallen rocks to the back of the cave. There the floor rose sharply, affording a level apparently beyond reach of the tide, for some tiny land plants had found a lodging, ferns waved from the crannied vault and there was no sign of any marine growth.
"This used to be a favorite resort of mine," said Max, who was sitting on the high ledge, some five feet wide. Beyond, the cave ended in a mass of stone and rubble.
Roger's eyes grew wide. "What a dandy place!" he exclaimed.
"Not much compared with the Plémont caves," replied his companion. "You'll probably go there before leaving the island. There are five or six of them and one has a waterfall dividing it into two distinct caves. Plémont is the spot where the cable comes in from England, crawls out of the ocean like a great dripping hoary old sea-serpent to trail through a cleft to the station on the cliff above. This is a rat-hole beside those caves."
"I'll take steps to go there," said Roger earnestly. "Say, does the water ever come up here?"
"I don't think so. Even at the spring tides, it would probably not reach within two feet of this ledge. Only a rip-snorter of a tempest could endanger goods stored here, or even anybody who chose this cave to hide in."
"Some hiding-place," admitted Roger.
"So I've found it. When I was about your age, I came down here becauseI was annoyed with the world in general and stopped between two tides."
"Really?" gasped Roger. "Did you get wet?"
"Not a bit. I'll admit that things seemed spooky when I'd waited so long that I couldn't get out. I took solid comfort in the ferns and in a sea pink that had put out a scared little blossom right where we are sitting. I was shut in the better part of six hours and time proved a bit slow. I remember coming to the conclusion that perhaps the people I'd left behind weren't so utterly unreasonable after all. I fancy it's a rather sure sign that when you can't rub along with anybody, the trouble isn't altogether with them."
Roger looked at him suspiciously but Max's gaze was bent on the cave entrance, arching over a wonderful view of blue sea.
"Do you like to live in Paris?" he asked hastily.
"I'd rather stop in Rome where my father is," Max replied, suppressing a smile over the sudden change of subject. "But Dad runs up occasionally. I feel as though I'd be more use in Rome because there I know everybody who is anybody, you see, and it would be a help to the Embassy. Dad thinks I may be able to work a transfer after a year or so. If the Ambassador to Italy remarks to the State Department at Washington that Maxfield Hamilton seems a likely young chap with both eyes open and that he wouldn't mind having him on his staff, why Max may receive a document telling him to pack his little box and attach his person to the Embassy at Rome."
Roger laughed. "Then you don't like Paris?"
"Oh, yes," said Max thoughtfully. "I've had a jolly time socially. I can't imagine anybody in my circumstances not enjoying himself. But it's not where I most want to be. It's up to me to make good so emphatically that they'll hand me on to Rome with a word in my favor."
"I expect they will," said Roger.
"Not if I don't buckle down," said Max half to himself. "Something happened last October that gave me a jolt and it has been hard to stick to work. I came over here for the holidays determined to get myself in hand again. I think I've succeeded, old chap, so I'd better go back and dig in. A man mustn't whine, you know, if it looks jolly final that he isn't going to have everything he wants. I've wasted time enough. I must go back to Paris now and keep my mind on my job."
"I bunked Bill Fish this afternoon," admitted Roger suddenly.
"No doubt he was a frightful bore," commented Max without showing the least surprise. "Probably I'd have done the same in your place. The only disadvantage about shying at disagreeable things like tutors is that one hardly ever gets rid of them after all. I'm becoming convinced that the only way to get round a difficulty is to hit it in the head and walk over its flattened corpse."
Roger grinned. "Shall I bat Bill Fish?" he asked.
"Bill Fish might be worse. Don't blame you for feeling him a freak, but the schools in Jersey are footy affairs. If you want a fair sample of a school you'd have to try England proper. We've messed about here long enough. Let's take a swim."
"Does the cave end here?" asked Roger, looking at the pile of broken stone beyond the shelf.
"I suppose so. It's the only one on the Manor lands so Connie and I liked to come. Uncle Dick wouldn't permit it unless a grown person was with us to watch the tide. How about a dip? No one can see us."
Max left the ridge to saunter toward the entrance, stopping to investigate more than one pool of anemones. "By the way," he added, "I wouldn't tell the girls of this cave. They'll be keen on searching for it afternoons when they are free and you aren't, and may get into a mess with the tides. Really it's not quite safe."
[Illustration: PLÉMONT IS THE SPOT WHERE THE CABLE COMES IN FROMENGLAND]
"All right," agreed Roger, sliding from the shelf. As he did so, a sudden current of warm air struck him, quite unlike the rather damp, salty atmosphere of the cave. His curiosity was sufficiently aroused to cause him to stop and look back, but Max had already begun to undress and there seemed no possible place for a sweet land breeze to find entrance.
Max's abrupt departure two days later was a great disappointment to Win, who admired him greatly and coveted a closer acquaintance. That he should cut short his stay on the plea of work to be done seemed reasonable to the others but his going quite upset Win. Nor was this disappointment lightened by a period of semi-invalidism when all exertion was difficult and patience very far to seek. Not for some weeks after Max left was Win able to take advantage of the Colonel's prized invitation to use the Manor library.
He made his first visit, fully determined to broach the discovery of Richard Lisle's letter to either the Colonel or his daughter, whichever should appear, but Yvonne, who admitted him with a smiling welcome, reported neither at home.
Nor did fortune favor his second attempt. The Colonel was in St. Helier's and Constance entertaining a group of young people on the lawn. Win dodged these visitors and from the library windows looked down upon a lively set of tennis. Players and spectators alike seemed to know one another extremely well. The inference Win drew was correct, that for some reason, the little lady of the Manor chose just now to crowd her life with social engagements and gay festivities.
Time had been when Win didn't care to watch others play games he could not share, but Win was learning that every life has its compensations; when one is debarred from one thing, he is sure to have another in its place. Without envy Win watched them for a time before turning to the books.
His third visit was made on a morning in early February when walking was rather difficult owing to a penetrating rain. Wintry weather seemed to have visited the Island, but the cold was deceptive, for though a heavy coat was acceptable, plenty of flowers were in blossom, even a number of surprised-looking roses.
On reaching the Manor, Win was admitted by cordial Yvonne, who at once conducted him to his sanctuary. The room was empty, but a cheery fire glowed on the hearth, and on the long bare black oak table stood an enormous copper bowl full of fresh daffodils, making a spot of light and beauty in the sombre room.
Win spent a few moments warming his hands at the fire and considering thoughtfully the back of the old Psalter in which was shut Richard Lisle's letter. Perhaps opportunity would favor him to-day, some chance be provided to show that discovery to either Miss Connie or her father.
That its contents referred to Prince Charles was established beyond doubt by the existing legend of his entertainment at the Manor, but the letter said much more than that. Only some one thoroughly familiar with the Manor and its possessions could interpret further. As the rain beat on the terrace outside, Win chanced to look up at the portrait near the fireplace, and instantly recalled that curious dream.
"I dreamed all that stuff just because I've always been crazy to go treasure-hunting," he thought, "and because that old Cavalier was the last thing I saw before I went to sleep. Well, I might go and read for a while."
With a glance of admiration at some fine old armor passed on the way, Win went into the farther room to settle himself on the comfortable window seat with a fat history of the island of Jersey.
Fully an hour passed before the sound of low voices penetrated his consciousness. Gradually he became aware that two people were now occupying the seat before the smouldering fire. One was Constance Lisle, the other some one Win had never seen before, a dark distinguished-looking young man, evidently of foreign blood.
Connie was leaning back in the corner of the old settle, her white dress and the neighboring bowl of daffodils standing out as high lights in the shadowy surroundings. Her companion, beside her, was bending slightly forward, his face turned eagerly toward hers.
Had he wished to listen, Win could not distinguish the low words. That fact absolved him from the necessity of making his presence known, for leave he could not without passing through the room. Presently the young man raised his voice and Win realized that he was speaking in Italian.
For the moment, interest in the present dismissed the past. Win had heard the girls' chatter about their adored Miss Connie and the romance attributed to her by Mrs. Trott, but boy-like, paid very little attention to what he considered the foolish fancies of sentimental kids. Now he was startled into sudden interest.
That stranger must be Miss Connie's Italian prince. Very handsome and very much of a gentleman he looked and most earnest their conversation. Yet even to an inexperienced observer, it was not that of two happy young people, entering a sunny stretch of life, but of a boy and girl confronted with some stern and very present problem. Connie's hands were clasped too tightly, there was a sense of strain in the poise of her head. Her companion's pose was one of perplexity and doubt.
Win remembered what else he had heard of that rumored engagement, not much to be sure, save that strong pressure was being put upon the last of the Santo-Pontes in order to secure the estates and title of a great Roman house to the church of his ancestors.
Presently Win realized that he had no right even to look on. He turned his face to the storm and again buried himself in his old volume.
A long time later he heard his name and Constance strolled alone through the arch from the other room. She looked pale and tired but otherwise composed.
"I didn't know you were here, Win," she said as she came to his chosen window.
"I've been stuck in this book for ages. Miss Connie, I've found the most interesting thing ever."
"What is it?" Connie inquired listlessly, wondering, but not particularly caring whether Win knew of her interview with Louis di Santo-Ponte. She looked sweet and wistful as she stood leaning against the window seat, her mind down in the town where the boat for St. Malo was getting up steam. "Tell me about it, Win," she added, recalling her wandering thoughts. She liked Win as she liked most young people.
"Come and see," said Win, replacing his history in its case. Connie accompanied him to the fireplace in the main room.
"Did you ever look at that book?" he inquired, indicating the worn oldPsalter.
"There are several thousand books here that I never looked at," said Connie promptly. "Max is the one who browses in this part of the library. Ah, he's been here lately, reading his horrid old German philosophers." With an air of disgust she pointed to the blue-bound modern volumes.
"What is this book that interests you so much!" she went on, taking It from the shelf. "Oh, an old copy of the Psalms. Look at its odd type."
"It isn't the book that interests me," said Win, "but this paper. I found it accidentally. Do read it, Miss Connie, and see what you make of it."
After her first perusal, Constance grew as excited as Win. With the deliberate purpose of putting her troubles from her mind, she concentrated her attention on this discovery.
"The prince of course refers to Charles, because it is an historical fact that he took refuge in Jersey," began Win.
"Yes, and there's the legend that he was entertained here at the Manor," exclaimed Connie. "Why Dad will be crazy about this, for it proves that story!"
"I hoped he'd be pleased," said Win happily.
"Oh, he will!" replied Connie. "Charles was just a boy, only sixteen, at the time he fled from England."
"Ever since I saw two letters in the British Museum, Charles the Second has seemed a very real person to me," said Win smiling. "Do you know them, Miss Connie? One is from Queen Henrietta Maria to Prince Charles, expressing great regret that the prince has refused to take the 'physick' prescribed for him, and hoping that he will consent to do so on the following day, for if he didn't she should be obliged to come to him and she trusted he would not give her that 'paine.' She had also requested the Duke of Newcastle to report to her whether he took it or not and so she 'rested.'
"But what I liked best," Win went on, "was the letter Prince Charles wrote. He evidently didn't reply to his mother, but sent a note to the Duke of Newcastle in which he flatly refused to take the 'physick' and advised the Duke not to take any either!"
Connie laughed. "That does seem a touch of real boy nature, doesn't it? But I'm afraid Prince Charles was rather a rotten young cub, not worth the affection expended on him nor the good lives laid down in his cause. The Richard Lisle who wrote this letter was my great-great—oh, I don't know how many times removed—grandfather! It's plain that Prince Charles came here to the Manor, was fed and provided with a change, and escorted to the castle, probably Orgueil. But what the 'relicks' are and what the 'safe place,' I can't tell. Nor do I know what is meant by the Spanish chest. If there was anything of that description around the Manor I'd jolly well know it."
"Would Colonel Lisle know?" asked Win eagerly.
"I wonder, will he?" mused Connie after a pause spent in close scrutiny of the document. "We'll ask. Anyway, he'll be awfully interested because here it is in black and white that Prince Charles was brought to the Manor. Win, it's storming desperately and I'm bored to death. I'm going to send Pierre to St. Aubin's to tell your mother that you won't be back for luncheon. We'll show Dad your find and bring our united minds to bear on the problem."
Win was sorely tempted. The walk through the storm had taxed his strength. Should he struggle back, the chances were that he would be too tired for any lessons after his arrival.
"Your tutor won't matter, will he?" asked Connie. "You're not expected to be so regular as Roger."
Wingate grinned. "I was thinking how angry Roger will be if he finds himself the sole object of Bill Fish's attention this afternoon. Thank you, Miss Connie. I want mightily to stay. I ought not to have come up here today when it was storming, but since I'm here the wisest thing is to wait for a time. And I'm wild to know what your father thinks of this paper. I will send a note to Mother if I may."
"I'll write, too," said Constance, "and I shall tell her that we'll keep you all night if the rain continues. I need somebody to play with me, Win. I'm jolly glad you did brave the storm."
Roger's state of mind at finding himself destined to be the sole object of Bill Fish's ministrations that afternoon was laughable. He vowed to Frances that he also would take French leave and bitterly denounced Win for absconding, declaring it a "put up job."
"Perhaps Mr. Fisher won't come," consoled Frances. "The storm has really grown much worse since morning."
"Indeed he will," said Roger darkly. "Fishes like water. I only hope he'll wipe his fins when he comes in. The last rainy day he dripped all over the room. I was 'most drowned before we finished. But it was mean and sneaky of Win to go up to the Manor this morning. He might have known that I wanted help with my arithmetic."
"Perhaps I can help," offered Frances. Luncheon just over, the unwelcome Mr. Fisher was due in twenty minutes.
"Oh, you may try," conceded Roger ungraciously. "But if Win stays up there all night, I'll pay him out."
"Mother thinks from Miss Connie's note that they were doing something very interesting and she really wanted him," Fran said lazily, her face pressed against the pane. "How angry and gray the water looks."
"I've a great mind to bunk," said Roger gloomily. "It's not fair for me to work alone all the afternoon."
"Edith and I have been at school all the morning," said the peace-making Frances. "And Win does work when he can; he never really shirks, Roger."
"Helikesto study," grumbled Roger. "I don't."
"There are so many things you can do that Win can't," reminded his sister.
"Don't preach," retorted Roger, but Fran's comment recalled to his mind the conversation with Max in the cave. Boy-like, Roger would not admit even to himself any repentance for his short-comings on that occasion, but the recollection served to smooth his present ruffled feelings. Win had worked alone with Bill Fish all that afternoon and Roger remembered most distinctly how Mr. Max looked when he said he was going back to Paris and waste no more time.
"Win is having fun, I'm sure," said Fran at length. "Miss Connie promised Edith and me that we shall come up and sleep in the haunted room some night if we like."
"What's it haunted by?" demanded Roger.
"She wouldn't tell us. Says if we know, we'll be sure to see things. But she is going to have a bed put up for herself and come in with us, so I'm sure it's nothing very dreadful. I'm so glad we came to Jersey just so we could know Miss Connie."
"Some girl," admitted Roger. "But she can't hold a candle to Mr. Max.He's a corker."
"He is nice," Frances agreed. "But show me your arithmetic. And would you like me to sit in the room? Perhaps Mr. Fisher won't be so fierce if I am there."
"I would not," was her brother's concise reply. "He isn't fierce either; he's merely flappy. I tell you heisa fish. He looks exactly like one of those flatfish we catch down in Maine. Eyes both on one side."
Nothing more unlike the tall, angular Scotch tutor could possibly have been mentioned, but Fran suppressed a laugh as she inspected Roger's problems in mathematics.
"Me doing arithmetic!" he groaned. "And Win having the time of his life at the Manor!"
If not exactly experiencing such bliss, Win was thoroughly enjoying himself. After luncheon in the charming old Manor dining-room with a cheerful fire dispelling all gloom caused by the rain on the windows, the three adjourned to Colonel Lisle's study, where Win placed upon the table his discovery. The Colonel read it with great interest.
"Well, that is a valuable document, Win," he admitted. "It is evidently a page from a letter that Richard Lisle, fourth, wrote to some one and never sent. I am the ninth Richard, so you see how far back that was. Of course it refers to the Prince of Wales, afterwards Charles II of England. It is a curious fact in the history of the Channel Islands that Guernsey sided with the Parliament in its dispute with the king, while Jersey remained royalist to the core. I am under great obligations to you for discovering this paper, for it proves beyond doubt the legend that I have always wished to see substantiated, that Prince Charles came to Laurel Manor."
"Don't you make out, Daddy, that they gave him other clothes and took him to the castle?" asked his daughter.
"Without doubt. Orgueil, or possibly Castle Elizabeth. I believe that the consensus of opinion now favors Elizabeth as having been the prince's refuge."
"What do you make of the rest of it, sir?" asked Win, who was still beaming with happiness over the Colonel's appreciation. "It says in so many words that they put something in a chest and hid it until the trouble was over."
"That much is plain," replied his host thoughtfully. The paper was spread upon his desk and the young people sat on either side. Win's attention was distracted for a moment by his view of the Colonel's distinguished face, the face of an high-bred English gentleman. With all the impetuosity of his American birth and training, Win felt the charm of this gentleman of other race and another generation. He admired the Colonel's complete repose, his courteous ways and softly modulated voice. They were not in the least effeminate and the empty sleeve and the little bronze Victoria cross bore witness that the Colonel was a very gallant officer.
"I think," began Constance, "that Great-great-grandfather Dick and his 'Sonne' put the prince's clothes and perhaps some other things in a chest and hid them. Dad, did you ever know of anything answering to the description of 'ye Spanish chest'?"
The Colonel thoughtfully smoothed his gray mustache. "There is the box that came from the Armada," he remarked. "But that cannot be the one referred to, since that belonged to your mother, my dear, and comes from her side of the house."
"Mummy was Irish," Connie explained to Win. "I'll show you that box. It really was washed up on the coast of Ireland and has been in her family for centuries. No, of course, it couldn't be that."
"A Spanish chest does not necessarily mean a relic of the Armada," went on the Colonel. "There might possibly be a box of Spanish workmanship, but I know of none in the Manor to which that description could be applied. That big black oak chest in the upper hall is English. The one in my room is Flemish."
"Oh, those are both too big, anyway," declared Constance. "Even men in a hurry wouldn't take a box as big as those to pack a suit of clothes in. No, it was something that could be easily carried and concealed. It takes four servants to move those great arks."
"Then, if there isn't anything in the Manor that answers the description, don't you believe the chest and the things in it are still hidden?" Win asked rather shyly, but with keen interest.
The Colonel smiled kindly. "Sorry to quench your enthusiasm, Win," he said, "but I doubt it. Prince Charles landed in Jersey in 1646 if my memory serves. Subtract that date from this year of our Lord. I'm afraid that chest, whatever it was, has long since emerged from its hiding-place. According to the document here, it was concealed only till 'happier times should dawne.' Prince Charlie came to his own again, you remember. This Richard Lisle died somewhere where about 1675. He lived to see the Restoration, so surely he or his son brought to light again the things that there was no longer reason to conceal."
"But, Daddy," said Constance quickly, noticing the look of disappointment on Win's expressive face. "People forget. Let's think of all the possibilities. It says some place outside the walls. And they needed a lantern."
"There is the cave, daughter, at the edge of the Manor estates, but you know all about that. Why, I know that cave myself, I was going to say, every grain of sand in it."
"That's true," admitted Connie. "And of course in all the centuries, numbers of people have been there."
"Considering the brisk trade in smuggling that was done in Jersey during the 1700's, I think the chances of finding anything in the Manor cave are very small," agreed her father. "There is one thing, though, we might look at."
As he spoke, he rose and produced his keys. Swinging back a portrait on hinges, he disclosed a small safe built into the wall. Win was silent through interest in this novel way of concealing a strong-box, but Constance jumped up.
"What are you looking for. Daddy? Oh, the plans of the Manor."
"You see," said the Colonel to Win as he sat clown again, a discolored roll of papers in his hand, "the original Manor house has been added to from time to time. Let us see what it comprised in the days when Richard Lisle read his Psalter and wrote his letter. It is possible that something then outside the wall may now be inside the house."
"There's a number of queer things about this old place," said Connie, sharing Win's look of expectation. "Max and I have run a good many of them to earth, but there may be something yet. Certainly we never stumbled on any Spanish chest."
The two young people helped the Colonel spread the plans and arrange paper-weights to keep them flat.
"This comprises not only the house itself but the grounds," he began."They run as you see to the cliffs of the bay. The cave is there."
"I never knew that," said Win. "Is it large?"
"Nothing like Plémont or even La Grecq," Constance replied. "Those are the show caves of Jersey. There are many as big as ours. It's a rather rough walk, Win, and the cave is accessible only at low tide. I did say something about it once to Edith and Frances, but they didn't understand, and after they were caught by the tide, I thought it would be better for them not to know of it. You see one can get shut in till the next low water. There's no danger because the vault is so high that the tide doesn't fill it. In fact, Max deliberately stopped there once."
"Was he shut in?" asked Win.
"No," said the Colonel smiling. "He was annoyed with me and took that method of expressing his displeasure. I fancy he was a trifle surprised that no fuss was made over his exploit. You see, I knew he was perfectly safe. Connie, I think that path is possible for Win some day when the weather and tide both serve. Well, this is the extent of the original house. It includes this wing where we are and the main portion. These shaded partitions show distinctly where later additions have been made."
"What is this tiny dotted line across the grounds?" Win inquired.
"That? It is a footpath toward the shore and the gardener's cottage. I should say that the present path curves more, but that is its direction in general."
Win was puzzled by this explanation. Why should only one of the Manor paths be marked? That it was the sole one existing at the time the plans were drawn seemed scarcely possible.
"That 'safe place,' if it was outside the walls in those days would probably have been somewhere underground," commented Connie, after the map had been exhaustively discussed. "That might mean that it is now in the cellars somewhere. Dad, have we your permission to explore all the subterranean caverns?"
"If there are any that you haven't already investigated," said the amused Colonel. "I didn't suppose there was a square inch of the place that you and Max hadn't by heart."
"I thought so, too," said Constance, "but if Win's theories are correct, there must be something we have overlooked. What do you say about an exploration, Win?"
"Oh, I should like nothing better," said Win eagerly. "It will be great sport to hunt for that chest. And it's so interesting to look around a house that has been in the same family for centuries."
"There has been a Richard Lisle of Laurel Manor for over four hundred years," said the Colonel rather sadly. "I am the last of a long line."
"The only solution," said Constance quickly, "is for your unworthy daughter to marry some perfectly insignificant person, who will as a part of the marriage contract, take the name of Lisle."
"The man who marries my daughter," replied the Colonel with gentle dignity, "will have an honorable and, I trust, an honored name of his own to offer her."
"Else he will never get her," commented Connie with charming impertinence. "Daddy dear, if I could find a man one half as nice as you are, I'd marry him on the spot! Win, we'll arrange to head an exploring expedition. It's too cold and spooky in the cellars to do it this afternoon. We'll plan for a time when Roger and the girls can share the sport. I wish Max was here, too. He would simply dote on it."
"I wish he was!" sighed Win. "I was dreadfully disappointed when I heard he had gone. I think he's about right."
A sudden very charming smile broke over Connie's face. Up to that time, it had been rather serious. "If we don't solve the problem before the Easter holidays," she said, "Max will be keen on running it down. I hope he can come then. He took so long at Christmas that I'm afraid they'll dock him at Easter, and I shall be completely desolated if that happens."
"I think he will come," said the Colonel. "In fact he told me he might be able to get away for an occasional week-end. With a fast car it is not so far to Granville or even St. Malo and he need waste no time waiting for the steamer."
Constance suddenly sat up straight. "Max mustn't neglect his duties," she declared. "Either he has a very indulgent chief or he is hedging."
Her attitude was so comically severe that Win laughed, and her father looked up with a smile.
"I can't be responsible for what Max tells his chief," he remarked, "but I know enough about the diplomatic service to feel sure he is giving satisfaction."
Constance still looked stern. "It's all right, of course, if he really earns his week-end," she conceded, "but I won't have him shirking. In October he was so serious and quiet that I didn't know what to think of him, but at Christmas he was the same dear boy he used to be. Didn't you think he was just like his old self?"
The Colonel thus appealed to, returned her smile. "There were moments," he gravely replied, "when I doubted whether either one of you was more than sixteen."