There followed on the events above narrated two or three quiet months — a time well remembered by Charles, as one of the quietest and most peaceful in his life, in all the times which followed. Every fine day there was a ramble with his father through the kennels and stables, and down through the wood, or over the farm. Charles, who at Oxford thought no day complete, after riding with the drag, or Drakes, or rowing to Sandford; without banquier, vingt-et-un, or loo, till three o’clock in the morning, now found, greatly to his astonishment, that he got more pleasure by leaning over a gate with his father, and looking at fat beasts and pigs, chewing a straw the while. A noisy wine party, where he met the same men he had met the night before, who sang the same songs, and told the same silly stories, was well enough; but he began to find that supper in the oak dining-room, sitting between Mary and his father, and talking of the merest trifles, was a great deal pleasanter. Another noticeable fact was, that Father Mackworth’s sarcasms were turned off with a good-natured laugh, and that battle was on all occasions refused to the worthy priest. In short, Charles, away from company and issipation, was himself. The good, worthy fellow, whom I learnt to like years ago. The man whose history I am proud to write.

Lord Saltire had arrived meanwhile; he had written to Densil, to say that he was horribly bored; that he wished, as an ethical study, to settle, once for all, the amount of boredom a man could stand without dying under it; that, having looked carefully about him, to select a spot and a society where that object could be obtained, he had selected Ravenshoe, as being the most eligible; that he should wish his room to have a south aspect; and that his man would arrive with his things three days after date. To this Densil had written an appropriate reply, begging his kind old friend to come and make his house his home; and Lord Saltire had arrived one evening, when every one was out of the way but Mary, who received him in the hall.

She was in some little trepidation. She had read and heard enough of “the wild prince and Poyns,” and of Lord Saltire’s powers of sarcasm, to be thoroughly frightened at her awful position. She had pictured to herself a terrible old man, with overhanging eyebrows, and cruel gleaming eyes beneath them. Therefore she was astonished to see a gentleman, old it is true, but upright as a young oak, of such remarkable personal beauty, and such a pleasant expression of countenance as she had never seen before.

She was astonished, I said; but, mind you, Mary was too much of a lady to show too much of it. She sailed owards him through the gloom of the old hall with a frank smile, and just that amount of admiration in her sweet eyes which paid Lord Saltire the truest compliment he had had for many a day.

“Mr. Ravenshoe will be sorry to have missed receiving you, my lord,” she said.

“If Mr. Ravenshoe is sorry,” he said, “I certainly am not. Mr. Ravenshoe has done me the honour to show me the most beautiful thing in his house first. I rather think that is a pretty compliment, Miss Corby, unless I am getting out of practice.”

“That is a very pretty compliment, indeed,” she answered, laughing. “I most heartily thank you for it. I know nothing in life so pleasant as being flattered. May I introduce Father Mackworth?”

Lord Saltire would be delighted. Father Mackworth came forward, and Mary saw them look at one another. She saw at a glance that either they had met before, or there was some secret which both of them knew. She never forgot Mackworth’s defiant look, or Lord Saltire’s calm considerate glance, which said as plain as words, “This fellow knows it.”

This fellow knew it — had known it for years. The footman who had left Mackworth at the lodge of the French Lye￡e, the nameless domestic, who formed the last link with his former life — this man had worn Lord Saltire’s livery, and he remembered it.

“I see,” said Lord Saltire, “that Miss Corby is prepared for walking. I guess that she is going to meet Mr. Ravenshoe, and, if my surmise is correct, I beg to be allowed to accompany her.”

“You are wonderfully correct, my lord. Cuthbert and Charles are shooting pheasants in the wood, and Mr. Ravenshoe is with them on his pony. If you will walk with me, we shall meet them.”

So the grand old eagle and the pretty sweet-voiced robin passed out on to the terrace, and stood looking together, under the dull December sky, at the whispering surges. Eight and left the misty headlands seemed to float on the quiet grey sea, which broke in sighs at their feet, as the long majestic groundswell rolled in from the ocean; and these two stood there for a minute or more without speaking.

“The new school of men,” said Lord Saltire at last, looking out to sea, “have perhaps done wisely, in thinking more of scenery and the mere externals of nature than we did. We lived the life of clubs and crowds, and we are going to our places one after another. There are but few left now. These Stephensons and Taxtons are fine men enough. They are fighting inert matter, but we fought the armies of the Philistine. We had no time for botany and that sort of thing; which was unfortunate. You young folks shouldn’t laugh at us though.”

“I laugh at you!” she said suddenly and rapidly; “laugh at the giants who warred with the gods. My lord, the men of our time have not shown themselves equal to their fathers.”

Lord Saltire laughed.

“No, not yet,” she continued; “when the time comes they will. The time has not come yet.”

“Not yet, Miss Corby. It will come, — mind the words of a very old man; an old fellow who has seen a confounded deal of the world.”

“Are we to have any more wars, Lord Saltire?”

“Wars such as we never dreamt of, young lady.”

“Is all this new inauguration of peace to go for nothing?”

“Only as the inauguration of a new series of wars, more terrible than those which have gone before.”

“France and England combined can give the law to Europe.”

Lord Saltire turned upon her and laughed. “And so you actually believe that France and England can actually combine for anything more important than a raid against Eussia. Not that they will ever fight Eussia you know. There will be no fight. If they threaten loud enough, Eussia will yield. Nicholas knows his weakness, and will give way. If he is fool enough to fight the Western powers, it will end in another duel a Voutrance between France and England. They will never work together for long. If they do, Europe is enslaved, and England lost.”

M But why, Lord Saltire?”

“Well, well; I think so. Allow me to say that I was not prepared to find a deep-thinking, though misguided politician in such an innocent-looking young lady. God defend the clear old land, for every fresh acre I see of it confirms my belief that it is the first country in the world.”

They were crossing the old terraced garden towards the wood, where they heard the guns going rapidly, and both were silent for a minute or so. The leafless wood was before them, and the village at their feet. The church spire rose aloft among the trees. Some fisherman patriarch had gone to his well-earned rest that day, and the bell was tolling for him. Mary looked at the quiet village, at the calm winter’s sea, and then up at the calm stern face of the man who walked beside her, and said —

“Tell me one thing, Lord Saltire; you have travelled in many countries. Is there any land, east or west, that can give us what this dear old England does — settled order, in which each man knows his place and his duties? It is so easy to be good in England.”

“Well, no. It is the first country in the world. A few bad harvests would make a hell of it, though. Has Ravenshoe got many pheasants down here?”

And, so talking, this strange pair wandered on towards the wood, side by side.

Charles was not without news in his retirement, for a few friends kept him pretty well au fait with what was going on in the world. First, there was news from Oxford; one sort of which was communicated by Charles Marston, and another sort by one Marker of Brazenose, otherwise known as “Bodger,” though why, I know not, nor ever could get any one to tell me. He was purveyor of fashionable intelligence, while Charles Marston dealt more in example and advice. About this time the latter wrote as follows:—

“How goes Issachar? Is the ass stronger or weaker than formerly? Has my dearly-beloved ass profited, or otherwise, by his stay at Ranford? How is the other............