216 WINNIE CORSELLIS; OR, DEATH IN THE POT

| WINNIE CORSELLIS;

OR, CDE ALLE. TIN, SILL eEOrhs

IN THE

Te

GH up on the ridge which runs through
the midland counties of Worcester and
Warwick stands a quiet old-fashioned
farm-house. Grey moss and lichens
of golden red and russet brown have gathered over
the heavy stone window-frames and the sharply

pitched roof. Brilliant patches of stonecrop show

themselves here and there in the angles of the
tiling, and the thick fleshy leaves of the houseleck
point their prickly spikes upon the sloping eaves.
A few old beech-trees and a solitary yew cast
their shadow over its deep porch and long low
casements, from which the diamond panes reflect
the midday sun.

It was once the dairy-house of an ancient castle; |

but the Castle had been burnt during the civil wars,
to prevent its falling into the hands of Cromwell,

and no trace save lines of grassy moat remain to |

mark its site. But its memory still lingers in the

DAIRY,

names of the surrounding homesteads, and the,
Castle Farm retained its title long after all con-
nexion between the two had ceased to exist.

For at least ten years before the time of which
we write, it had become a joint property, held i
equal tenure by three people, two of whom were
old maiden ladies, sisters, residing at Merton, and
the third, Mr. Barrett, a business-man living in
Birmingham. Between these three, whom the will
of a common relation had made partners in its
possession, there reigned a bitter feud such as rarely].
exists except when people cannot get rid of each
other. The ladies thought that Mr. Barrett Was)

| grasping and niggardly, Mr. Barrett held that)

they were avaricious and stingy, each side believed
that they were cheated and defrauded, but they
had no power to sell the farm, and thus be quit at
once of each other and their bone of contention.
While they lived the property was not to be sold,

‘only when they were all dead was it to go to the