After luncheon on Sunday, Mr. Delane had a nap, as his commendable custom was. Then he took his hat and stick and set out for Littlehill. The Grange park stretches to the outskirts of the town, and borders in part on the grounds of Littlehill, so that the Squire had a pleasant walk under the cool shade of his own immemorial elms, and enjoyed the satisfaction of inspecting his own most excellent shorthorns. Reflecting on the elms and the shorthorns, and on the house, the acres, and the family that were his, he admitted that he had been born to advantages and opportunities such as fell to the lot of a few men; and, inspired to charity by the distant church-bell sounding over the meadows, he acknowledged a corresponding duty of lenient judgment in respect of the less fortunate. Thus he arrived at Littlehill in a tolerant temper, and contented himself with an indulgent shake of the head when he saw the gravel fresh marked with horses' hoofs. "Been riding instead of going to church, the young rascals," he said to himself, as he rang the bell. A small, shrewd-faced man opened the door and ushered Mr. Delane into the hall. Then he stopped. "If you go straight on, sir," said he, "through that baize door, and across the passage, and through the opposite door, you will find Mr. Bannister." Mr. Delane's face expressed surprise. "Mr. Bannister, sir," the man explained, "don't like visitors being announced, sir. If you would be so kind as walk in----" It was a harmless whim, and the Squire nodded assent. He passed through the baize door, crossed the passage, and paused before opening the opposite door. The sounds which came from behind it arrested his attention. To the accompaniment of a gentle drumming noise, as if of sticks or umbrellas bumped against the floor, a voice was declaiming, or rather chanting, poetry. The voice rose and fell, and Mr. Delane could not distinguish the words, until it burst forth triumphantly with the lines: "Love grows hate for love's sake, life takes death for guide; Night hath none but one red star--Tyrannicide." "Good gracious!" said Mr. Delane. The voice dropped again for a few moments, then it hurled out: "Down the way of Tsars awhile in vain deferred, Bid the Second Alexander light the Third. How for shame shall men rebuke them? how may we Blame, whose fathers died and slew, to leave us free?" The voice was interrupted and drowned by the crash of the pianoforte, struck with remorseless force, and another voice, the voice of a woman, cried, rising even above the crash: "Now, one of your own, Dale." "I think I'd better go in," thought Mr. Delane, and he knocked loudly at the door.