Six o’clock came, and seven, and not until half-past seven, when they had nearly given him up, did Henry Fairfield arrive at the Grange.

“How does Madam Fairfield?” bawled Master Harry, as he strode across the floor, and kissed Alice’s pretty cheek. “Odds bobbins”—as the man says in the play-house—I believe I bussed ye, did I? But don’t let him be angry; I wasn’t thinkin’, Charlie, no more than the follow that put farmer Gleeson’s fippun-note in his pocket last Trutbury fair. And how’s all wi’ ye, Charlie, hey? I’m glad to see the old house is standing still with a roof on since last gale. And how do ye like it, Alice? Rayther slow I used to think it; but you two wise heads are so in love wi’ one another ye’d put up in the pound, or the cow-house, or the horse-pond, for sake o’ each other’s company. ‘I loved her sweet company better than meat,’ as the song says; and that reminds me—can the house afford a hungry man a cut o’ beef or mutton and a mug of ale? I asked myself to dinner, ye know, and that’s a bargain there’s two words to, sometimes.”

Master Harry was a wag, after a clumsy rustic fashion—an habitual jester, and never joked more genially than when he was letting his companion in for what he called a “soft” thing,” in the shape of an unsound horse or a foolish wager.

His jocularity was supposed to cover a great deal of shrewdness, and some dangerous qualities also.

While their homely dinner was being got upon the table, honest Harry quizzed the lord and lady of Carwell Grange in the same vein of delicate banter, upon all their domestic arrangements, and when he found that there was but one sitting-room in a condition to receive them, his merriment knew no bounds.

“Upon my soul, you beat the cobbler in the song that ‘ lived in a stall, that served him for parlour, and kitchen, and hall,’, for there’s no mention of the cobbler’s wife, and he, being a single man, you know, you and your lady double the wonder, don’t ye, Alice, two faces under a hood, and a devilish pinched little hood, too, heh? ha, ha, ha!”

“When did you get to Wyvern?” asked Charles Fairfield, after a considerable pause.

“Last night,” answered his brother.

“You saw the old man?”

“Not till morning,” answered Henry, with a waggish leer, and a sly glance at Alice.

It was lost, however, for the young lady was looking dreamily and sadly away, thinking, perhaps, of the old Squire, not without self-upbraidings, and hearing nothing, I am sure, of all they said,

“Did you breakfast with him?”

“By Jove, I did, sir.”

“Well?”

“Well? Nothing particular, only let me see how long his stick his—his stick and his arm, together—say five feet six. Well, I counsel you, brother, not to go within five foot six inches of the old gentleman till he cools down a bit, anyhow.”

“No, we’ll not try that,” said Charles, “and he may cool down, as you say, or nurse his wrath, as he pleases, it doesn’t much matter to me; he was very angry, but sometimes the thunder and flame blow off, you know, and the storm hurts no one.”

“I hope so,” said Henry, with a sort of laugh. “When I tell you to keep out of the way, mind, I’m advising you against myself. The more you and the old boy wool each other the better for Hal.”

“He can’t unsettle the place, Harry—not that I want to see him—I never owed him much love, and I think now he’d be glad to see me a beggar.”

Harry laughed again.

“Did you ever hear of a bear with a sore head?” said Harry. “Well, that’s him, at present, and I give you fair notice, I think he’ll leave all he can away from you.”

“So let him; if it’s to you, Harry, I don’t grudge it,” said the elder son.

“That’s a handsome speech, bless the speaker. Can you give me a glass of brandy? This claret I never could abide,” said Harry, with another laugh; “besides it will break you.”

“I’ve but two bottles,............