In such wise, under the silent benediction of the lost loving dead, the long-deserted old Manor received back the sole daughter of its ancestry to that protection which we understand, or did understand at one time in our history, as ‘Home.’  Home was once a safe and sacred institution in England.  There seemed no likelihood of its ever being supplanted by the public restaurant.  That it has, in a great measure, been so supplanted, is no advantage to the country, and that many women, young and old, prefer to be seen in gregarious over-dressed hordes, taking their meals in Piccadilly eating-houses, rather than essay the becoming grace of a simple and sincere hospitality to their friends in their own homes, is no evidence of their improved taste or good breeding.  Abbot’s Manor was in every sense ‘Home’ in the old English sense of the word.  Its ancient walls, hallowed by long tradition, formed a peaceful and sweet harbour of rest for a woman’s life,—­and the tranquil dignity of her old-world surroundings with all the legends and memories they awakened, soon had a beneficial effect on Maryllia’s impressionable temperament, which, under her aunt’s ‘social’ influence, had been more or less chafed and uneasy.  She began to feel at peace with herself and all the world,—­while the relief she experienced at having deliberately severed herself by both word and act from the undesired attentions of a too-persistent and detested lover in the person of Lord Roxmouth, future Duke of Ormistonne, was as keen and pleasurable as that of a child who has run away from school.  She was almost confident that the fact of her having thrown off her aunt’s protection together with all hope of inheriting her aunt’s wealth, would be sufficient to keep him away from her for the future.  “For it is Aunt Emily’s money he wants—­not me;” she said to herself—­“He doesn’t care a jot about me personally—­any woman will do, provided she has the millions.  And when he knows I’ve given up the millions, and don’t intend ever to have the millions, he’ll leave me alone.  And he’ll go over to America in search of somebody else—­some proud daughter of oil or pork or steel!—­and what a blessing that will be!”

Meanwhile, such brief excitement as had been caused in St. Rest by the return of ‘th’ owld Squire’s gel’ and by the almost simultaneous dismissal of Oliver Leach, had well-nigh abated.  A new agent had been appointed, and though Leach had left the immediate vicinity, having employment on Sir Morton Pippitt’s lands, he had secured a cottage for himself in the small outlying hamlet of Badsworth.  He also undertook some work for the Reverend ‘Putty’ Leveson in assisting him to form an entomological collection for the private museum at Badsworth Hall.  Mr. Leveson had a singular fellow-feeling for insects,—­he studied their habits, and collected specimens of various kinds in bottles, or ‘pinned’ them on cardboard trays,—­he was an interested observer of the sprightly manners practised by the harvest-bug,