In England many such houses are yet to be found, monuments of the “Bad Old Times”—­memorials of the “Dark Ages”—­when lath and stucco existed not, and the “Jerry-builder” had no being.  But where, among them all, might be found such another parlour as this at Dapplemere, with its low, raftered ceiling, its great, carved mantel, its panelled walls whence old portraits looked down at one like dream faces, from dim, and nebulous backgrounds.  And where might be found two such bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-footed, deft-handed Phyllises as the two buxom maids who flitted here and there, obedient to their mistress’s word, or gesture.  And, lastly, where, in all this wide world, could there ever be found just such another hostess as Miss Anthea, herself?  Something of all this was in Bellew’s mind as he sat with Small Porges beside him, watching Miss Anthea dispense tea,—­brewed as it should be, in an earthen tea-pot.

“Milk and sugar, Mr. Bellew?”

“Thank you!”

“This is blackberry, an’ this is raspberry an’ red currant—­but the blackberry jam’s the best, Uncle Porges!”

“Thank you, nephew.”

“Now aren’t you awful’ glad I found you—­under that hedge, Uncle Porges?”

“Nephew,—­I am!”

“Nephew?” repeated Anthea, glancing at him with raised brows.

“Oh yes!” nodded Bellew, “we adopted each other—­at about four o’clock, this afternoon.”

“Under a hedge, you know!” added Small Porges.

“Wasn’t it a very sudden, and altogether—­unheard of proceeding?” Anthea enquired.

“Well, it might have been if it had happened anywhere but in Arcadia.”

“What do you mean by Arcadia, Uncle Porges?”

“A place I’ve been looking for—­nearly all my life, nephew.  I’ll trouble you for the blackberry jam, my Porges.”

“Yes, try the blackberry,—­Aunt Priscilla made it her very own self.”

“You know it’s perfectly—­ridiculous!” said Anthea, frowning and laughing, both at the same time.

“What is, Miss Anthea?”

“Why that you should be sitting here calling Georgy your nephew, and that I should be pouring out tea for you, quite as a matter of course.”

“It seems to me the most delightfully natural thing in the world,” said Bellew, in his slow, grave manner.

“But—­I’ve only known you—­half an hour—!”

“But then, friendships ripen quickly—­in Arcadia.”

“I wonder what Aunt Priscilla will have to say about it!”

“Aunt Priscilla?”

“She is our housekeeper,—­the dearest, busiest, gentlest little housekeeper in all the world; but with—­very sharp eyes, Mr. Bellew.  She will either like you very much,—­or—­not at all! there are no half measures about Aunt Priscilla.”

“Now I wonder which it will be,” said Bellew, helping himself to more jam.

“Oh, she’ll like you, a course!” nodded Small Porges, “I know she’ll like you ’cause you’re so different to Mr. Cassilis,—­he’s got black hair, an’ a mestache, you know, an’ your hair’s gold, like mine,—­an’ your mestache—­isn’t there, is it?  An’ I know she doesn’t like Mr. Cassilis, an’ I don’t, either, ’cause—­”