One morning late in June, Hubert Eldon passed through the gates of Wanley Manor and walked towards the village.

It was the first time since his illness that he had left the grounds on foot.

He was very thin, and had an absent, troubled look; the natural cheerfulness of youth's convalescence seemed altogether lacking in him.
From a rising point of the road, winding between the Manor and Wanley, a good view of the valley offered itself; here Hubert paused, leaning a little on his stick, and let his eyes dwell upon the prospect.

A year ago he had stood here and enjoyed the sweep of meadows between Stanbury Hill and the wooded slope opposite, the orchard-patches, the flocks along the margin of the little river.

To-day he viewed a very different scene.