I AM going now to describe the occurrences of a particular evening on which my young friend drank tea at Stanlake Farm, which was the name of the house with the old garden to which I have introduced the reader.

A light shower had driven the party in from the garden, and so the boy and Amy were at their ninepins in the great hall, when, the door being open, a gentleman rode up and dismounted, placing the bridle in the hand of a groom who accompanied him.

A tall man he was, with whiskers and hair dashed with white, and a slight stoop. He strode into the hall, his hat on, and a whip still in his hand.

“Hollo! So there you are—and how is your ladyship?” said he. “Skittles, by the law! Bray TO! Two down, by Jove! I’d rather that young man took you in hand than I. And tell me—where’s Ally?”

“Mamma’s in the drawing-room,” said the young lady, scarcely regarding his presence. “Now play, it’s your turn,” she said, addressing her companion.

The new arrival looked at the boy and paused till he threw the ball.

“That’s devilish good too,” said the stranger—“very near the nine. Eh? But a miss is as good as a mile; and I don’t think he’s quite as good as you—and she’s in the drawing-room: which is the drawing-room?”

“Don’t you know the drawing-room! Well, there it is,” and the young lady indicated it with her finger. “My turn now.”

And while the game was pursued in the hall, the visitor pushed open the drawing-room door and entered.

“And how is Miss Ally?”

“Oh, Harry! Really!”

“Myself as large as life. You don’t look half pleased, Ally. But I have nout but good news for you today. You’re something richer this week than you were last.”

“What is it, Harry “? Tell me what you mean?”

“So I will. You know that charge on Carwell—a hundred and forty pounds a year—well, that’s dropped in. That old witch is dead—ye might ’a seen it in the newspaper, if you take in one—Bertha Velderkaust. No love lost between ye. Eh?”

“Oh, Harry! Harry! don’t,” said poor Alice, pale, and looking intensely pained.

“Well, I wont then; I didn’t think ’twould vex you. Only you know what a head devil that was—and she’s dead in the old place, Hoxton. I read the inquest in the Times. She was always drinkin’. I think she was a bit mad. She and the people in the back room were always quarrelling; and the father’s up for that and forgery. But ’twasn’t clear how it came about. Some swore she was out of her mind with drink, and pitched herself out ’o the window! and some thought it might ’a bin that chap as went in to rob her, thinkin’ she was stupid; a............