My responses delighted her and perhaps it was because of this that one day she decided that, instead of sitting at our lessons every morning, we should take what she called occasional educational rambles.

One morning she took the trap and we drove across Salisbury Plain to Stonehenge. I was excited to stand there among those ancient stones while Miss Lloyd smiled at me approvingly.

“Now, girls,” she said, ‘can you sense the mystery . the wonder of this link with the past? “

“Oh yes,” I said.

Rachel looked somewhat bewildered. Tamarisk contemptuous. What was all this fuss about a lot of stones just because they had been standing there for a long time? I could see that was what she was thinking.

“Their age is assessed somewhere between 1800 and 1400 b.c. Think of that, girls! It was before Christ came that these stones were here.

The arrangement of the stones, which are set in accordance with the rising and the setting of the sun, suggests that this was a place for the worship of the heavens. Just stand still and contemplate that.”

Miss Lloyd was smiling at me. She knew that I shared her feeling of wonder.

After that I became very interested in the relics of ancient history which surrounded us. Miss Lloyd gave me some books to read. Aunt Sophie listened with approval when I told her of the fascination of Stonehenge, and that it was believed that the Druids had worshipped there.

“They were learned people, you know. Aunt Sophie, those Druids,” I told her.

“But they did offer up human sacrifices. They thought the soul never died but was passed from one person to another.”

“I don’t much like the thought of that,” said Aunt Sophie.

“And human sacrifices I like still less.”

“Savages, I reckon,” said Lily, who had overheard.

“They used to put people in cages which looked like images of their gods and they’d burn them alive,” I told them.

“My patience me!” cried Lily.

“I thought you went to school to learn reading, writing and arithmetic, not about a lot of hooligans.”

I laughed.

“It’s all history. Lily.”

“Well, it’s a good thing to know what those people were like,” added Aunt Sophie.

“It makes you glad you didn’t, live in those days.”

After that visit to Stonehenge I began to look about me for evidence of those who had lived here thousands of years before. Miss Lloyd encouraged me and one day she took us to Barrow Wood. This was quite close to The Rowans and I was delighted to have it so near.

“It is called Barrow Wood,” Miss Lloyd explained, ‘because of the barrows. Do you know what a barrow is girls? No? It is a grave. These in Barrow Wood were probably made in the Bronze Age. Doesn’t that excite you? “

“Yes,” I said, but a glazed look had come into Tamarisk’s eyes and Rachel was frowning in an attempt to concentrate.

“You see,” went on Miss Lloyd, ‘the earth and the stones have been piled up to make a mound. Beneath those mounds would be burial chambers. By the arrangement of the graves I imagine these must have been important people. And then, of course, the trees were allowed to grow round them. Yes, it must have been a special place . a shrine.

The people buried here were probably High Priests, leading Druids and the like. “

I was thrilled because I could see Barrow Wood from my bedroom window.

“Barrow is the name which was given these tombs. Tumulus is another word for barrow. So this is Barrow Wood.”

I went there often after that. It was so near. I would sit, contemplating the graves and marvelling that the people lying beneath had been there since before the birth of Jesus Christ. In summer the trees shut in the burial ground. In the winter one realized how close it was to the road.

One day when I was there I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs on the road. I went to the edge of the copse and looked out. Crispin St. Aubyn was riding by.

There was another occasion when I encountered Mr. Dorian there. He came walking towards me and I felt numb with horror at the sight of him.

When he saw me, a strange look came into his face and he hurried towards me. I had an immediate urge to get away from him as soon as possible. In this strange place he seemed more menacing than he had in the Bell House.

“Good day,” he said, smiling.

“Good day, Mr. Dorian.”

“Admiring the barrow?”

He was getting very close.

“Yes.”

“Pagan relics.”

“Yes, I have to run. My aunt is waiting for me.”

And I ran, my heart beating wildly with incomprehensible fear. J I reached the road and looked back. He was standing at the edge of the wood looking after me, watching me. f I ran back to The Rowans, triumphant because I had escaped.

I was thinking a great deal about Flora Lane. Perhaps one of the reasons was that I believed the doll she cherished was Crispin St. Aubyn, though it was hard to imagine he was ever a baby.

He was often in my thoughts. He was arrogant and rude and I did not like him, but I found myself making excuses for him. His parents had not loved him. Well, they hadn’t loved Tamarisk either. I supposed there was a strong resemblance between brother and sister. They both thought:! everyone should do as they wanted, i Mr. Dorian also forced his way into my thoughts. There had been occasions when I had dreamed of him. Vague dreams they had been, with no real meaning to them, bu I would wake up thankful to have left the dream, for wit! them came an indefinable feeling of fear.

Then I was by nature curious and interested in the life of Harper’s Green. I often found my footsteps taking m< in the direction of the Lanes’ cottage. I had the impression that Flora liked to see me. Her face always lit up with pleasure when I called good-afternoon. I made a point of passing the cottage whenever I could not after lessons, of course, because I had to go home to the luncheon Lily would have prepared, but when I walked in the afternoon I often did.

I would approach the cottage from the back and look over the wall. If Flora were sitting there in her usual place I would say good-afternoon; she would always answer me, and only on one occasion had she looked away, as though she did not want to see me. Then I went on, but usually she would imply that she wanted me to come in.

I soon discovered that when I was not welcome was when Lucy was at home. I had quickly gathered that Lucy did not want me to talk to her sister. Flora knew this too. There was a certain cunning about her.

She wanted to talk to me but she did not want to offend Lucy; so therefore my calling must be done when Lucy was out.

On this particular afternoon when I passed, I was invited to come in.

We sat on the seat, side by side, and she smiled at me in an almost conspiratorial way.

She talked for a while. It was a conversation I did not entirely understand but she was very pleased to have me there.

It was mainly about the doll, but more than once she referred to the mulberry bush and kept insisting that there was nothing there.

Then suddenly she said that the baby was fretful that afternoon. It could be wind. He was sniffling a little too and there was a chill in the air.

“I’d better take him in,” she said.

She stood up. I did the same and was preparing to say goodbye when she shook her head.

“No … you come.”

She pointed towards the cottage.

I hesitated. I wondered whether I ought to go in. Lucy was certainly not at home or she would have been out by now.

I could not resist. After all, I had had an invitation to enter.

I walked beside her as she pushed the pram to the back door and we stepped into the kitchen.

Gently she took the doll out of the pram murmuring, “There, there.

It’s a nasty little cold, that’s what it is. He wants his cot. Yes, he’ll be more comfortable there. Nanny Flora will see to that. “

It was more uncanny in the cottage than it seemed out of doors, and I felt excited as I followed her up the stairs.

There were a nursery and two bedrooms. The cottage was large as such cottages go. One of the bedrooms was for Lucy, I presumed, the other for Flora and the nursery of course for the doll.

We went into this nursery and she laid the doll tenderly in the cot.

Then she turned to me.

“He’ll be better there, little angel. They get fratchety when they’ve got a cold hanging about.”

I was always embarrassed when she talked about the doll as though it were living.

I said: “It’s a nice nursery.”

Her face lighted up with pleasure and then a puzzled expression crossed it.

“It’s not like the one we used to have.” Now she was looking a little frightened. I guessed I must have reminded her of the one at St. Aubyn’s, where she had nursed the real Crispin.

I tried to think of something to say. Then I noticed the picture.

There were seven birds and they were sitting on a stone wall. It looked as though it had been taken from a book and framed.

I took a step closer and read the inscription beneath it.

“Seven for a Secret,” I read. Then I cried: “Why! It’s the seven magpies!” ‘:

She was nodding enthusiastically. She had forgotten that this nursery was not like the old one at St. Aubyn’s.

You like it? ” she asked.

“It must mean the seven magpies in the verse. I learned it once. What is it now? I think I can remember:

“One for sorrow, Two for joy.

Three for a girl, Four for a boy.

Five for silver, Six for gold, And seven for a secret. “