constrained by duty and orders from authority
to let them have a glimpse of all these
fine things. She had invented well-sounding
names, not known to the family, for
the various parts of the house; and Sir
Charles himself was one day infinitely
amused at overhearing that he had a
"grand corridor" with a "State Dining
'All," a "Grand Steckess," with other
magnificent titles. The visitors always took
the most extraordinary interest in
objects of family use, and seemed to
regard a "bit of work" carelessly left on a
table, with something of a fetish-like awe
and mystery. The showwoman, without
the least conscious knowledge of human
nature, stimulated public interest by
perpetually saying, "Please don't touch the
family's things." "Be so good as not to
take up henything."

Devoid of these foolish pretensions, it
was a handsome house, and a handsome
place. The demesne was really noble,
and stretched away, a vast level of rich
land, with heavy old trees spread thickly
over it, and nodding drowsily in the breeze.
At the end of the lawn they grew into a
fringe, behind which could be seen the river
Pann, a broad and strong stream, which
did useful hard labour, further down, in
its working clothes, as it were, and
became rough, and even savage; but passing
by here was quite an elegant and well-
bred stream, fit for a gentleman's
residence. A hair's breath, the turn of a
card, a feather's weight, are all
hackneyed illustrations of the power of some
slight incident to disturb the course of
events in human life; and the peculiar
situation of this river Pann, in relation to
Panton Castle, and the method of crossing
it, was to have a mysterious effect on two
families.

As just described, it was a noble river,
full and brimming over, with a strong
current, and high banks. To pull across it
would require a stout pair of yeoman's
arms. The land on both sides of the river
belonged to the Pantons; but by a sort of
indulgence a light and elegant iron bridge
had been thrown across the river, and the
rustics were allowed to cross to the opposite
bank, which was laid out in a sort of pleasure
ground, with rockeries and shrubberies
and winding walks. It was all Sir
Charles's land; and the Jack Cades of
the district were always imputing to him
designs of enclosure, and of robbing the
people of their rights—if he could.

The walks were indeed charming, cut
half way up the bank, and through the
rich plantation that ran along it, and
were affected by many, not so much for
recreation as in the hope of glimpses of
what "the family" were doing. In old
times, before the new bridge was built,
that broad river barrier cut them off
utterly, opposed itself sternly; and they
had to walk a full quarter of a mile down
to the old bridge, where again they were
checked by the great gateway of Panton
Castle, its towers and archway—handsome
and ivy grown; a strong wall sweeping
straight down to the very bank, going down
thence into the very water and pitilessly
cutting off all approach.

When the little girls of the town were
told the conventional stories of Beautiful
Princesses living in palaces of gold and
diamonds, their thoughts flew away to
Panton Castle, where the enormously
wealthy heiress was reigning: or to the
glittering carriage with the bright plunging
steeds, in which she reclined, as if on
a sofa. The station-master had stories of
the countless chests and packages of all
sizes and weights which were coming down
everyday from London; each supposed to
contain some shape of "whim," and not
cared for when it arrived. Her rooms, Mrs.
Silvertop reported, were filled with
treasures—"wardrobes" of silks, and satins,
and laces; and her dresses a "strewin' the
very floor."

Yet for all this luxury her life was only
less dull than that of the poorest of the
girls about her. The air of the place was
not too rude for her tender chest; it was
a sort of sheltered Torquay, and her
residence there became almost enforced. She
found no pleasure in the common excitements.
Balls and plays she was forbidden;
she did not care at all for work or for
music, and for reading only a little. She
and her father sat together nearly every
evening in the great drawing-room alone,
with their costly furniture. The only
resource was the recurring dinner party,
the dull legitimate comedy with the same
actors over and over again. There was
a curious languor of intellect about her,
and yet her eyes were full of light and
quickness, roved to the right and to the left,
there was a blush, quick to her cheeks,
an animation in her voice. She did not
want for hasty passions, and when excitement
came, could be more excited than her
fellows. Yet there was an irregular charm
about her, an almost Indian fitfulness.

Dudley, often the object of her humour,