“But is there no legend connected with the well?” Kingcote asked.
“Oh yes. The spring has doubtless been used for centuries. I will show you the story, after supper, in the county history. The marble basin was built five years ago by Mrs. Clarendon, the lady who lives at the house over there, which is itself called Knightswell.”
“The lady,” Kingcote asked quickly, “whom I saw entering the gates?”
“No, no,” corrected Mr. Vissian, with a smile, “Mrs. Clarendon is in London. That was Miss Warren, a—a distant relation.”
“A very different person from Mrs. Clarendon,” put in Mrs. Vissian, in a low voice. The rector murmured assent.
“It was Miss Warren, then,” Kingcote pursued, “whom I saw sketching a charming cottage in the lane not far away. What an exquisite spot that is!”
“Wood End—yes. The trees there are all that remains of a forest.”
“The cottage is vacant, isn’t it?”
“Yes, has been for a year. A labourer and his family left and went to Canada; Mrs. Clarendon gave the poor people the means to emigrate, and we hear they are already doing well.”
“No one whom Mrs. Clarendon helps fails to do so,” remarked the rector’s wife.