Maurice was not long about his evening meal. Perhaps he made shorter work of it than he might have done otherwise, perceiving that the maid was longing for the moment when she might clear the table, and slip away by the back door to her Sunday evening tryst. Maid-servants at Borcel were kept very close, and were almost always under the eye of their mistress, yet as a rule the Borcel End domestic always had her ‘young man.’ Maurice heard the back door shut, stealthily, and felt very sure that the kitchen was deserted. He drew his chair nearer to the hearth, lighted a cigar, and abandoned himself to idle thought. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VIII ‘GOOD NIGHT, GOOD REST. AH! NEITHER BE MY SHARE.’ MAURICE CLISSOLD sat for some time, smoking and musing by the hearth—sat till the light faded outside the diamond-paned windows, and the shadows deepened within the room. He might have sat on longer had he not been surprised by the opening of a door in that angle of the hall which was sacred to age and infirmity in the person of old Mrs. Trevanard. It was the door of her room which had opened. ‘Have they come back yet?’ asked her feeble old voice. ‘No, ma’am,’ answered Maurice, ‘not yet. Can I do anything for you?’ ‘No, sir. It’s the strange gentleman, Mr.—Mr.——’ ‘Clissold. Yes, ma’am. Won’t you come to your old place by the fire?’ ‘No; I’ve my fire in here, thank you kindly. But the place seems lonesome when they’re away. I’m not much of a one to talk myself, but I like to hear voices. The hours seem so long without them. You can come in, if you please, sir. My room is kept pretty tidy, I believe; I should fret if I thought it wasn’t.’ The old woman was standing on the threshold of the door opening between the two rooms. Maurice had risen to offer her assistance. ‘Come in and sit down a bit,’ she said, pleased at having found some one to talk to, for it was a notorious fact at Borcel End that old Mrs. Trevanard always had a great deal more to say for herself when her daughter-in-law was out of the way than she had in the somewhat freezing presence of that admirable housewife. Maurice complied, and entered the room which he had observed through the half-glass door, a comfortable homely room enough, in the light of an excellent fire. Old Mrs. Trevanard required a great deal of warmth. She went back to her arm-chair, and motioned her visitor to a seat on the other side of the hearth. ‘It’s very kind of you to be troubled with an old woman like me,’ she mumbled. ‘I dare say you could tell me plenty of interesting stories about Borcel End if you were inclined, Mrs. Trevanard,’ said Maurice.