"Sir Cecil is no more. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. ’ ‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know. I asked you to go. . Maggot. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. Then he had gone away. " Animated by this trifling success, he proceeded with fresh ardour, and the rapidity of his progress was proclaimed by the heap of bricks, stones, and mortar which before long covered the floor. His last actions were futile.
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