"Oh! I know that, I know that," rejoined the old servant; but still, instead of obeying the directions he received, he retrod his steps slowly towards the house. His conduct was soon explained by his calling aloud--"William! William! come and help here! The bridge is too much for one, and here is the young lord and a whole host of people, men, women, and children. Perhaps it is not the young lord after all. He was a curly-pated boy when last I saw him, and this looks like a colonel of horse." "Time! time! Master Dixon; time may make us all Colonels of horse," answered a brisk-looking youth in a tight doublet, which set off his sturdy limbs to good advantage, as he strode forward to the old man's assistance. "Time is a strange changer of curly hair. Doubtless your good dame patted your head some years agone, and tailed you her pretty boy; and now, if she were to see you, the mother would not know her son, but would call you uncle or grandpapa." "And so I was a pretty boy--that is very true," answered the old man, coming forward again towards the bridge, well pleased with ancient memories; "and my mother did often pat my head--Lord! I remember it as if it were but yesterday." "Ah! but you have seen a good many yesterdays since then, Master Dixon," rejoined the young man, following to the edge of the river, with the wise air of self-satisfied youth. "Now, Master Dixon, you unhook while I pull;" and, as the bridge was slowly let down, he added, "Give you good even, my lord. You are welcome to Langley. Good even, lady. You are welcome, too, and so are all these pretty dames. My lady will be right glad to see you all." His words were cheerful, and there is something very reassuring in the gay tones of the human voice. They seem, in the hour of despondency and gloom, to assure us that all is not sadness in the world; that there is truly such a thing as hope; that there are moments of enjoyment, and that the heart is not altogether forbidden to be happy--all matters of which we entertain many doubts when the cloud of sorrow first falls upon us, and hides the brighter things of life from our eyes. How often is it that the reality belies the outside appearance--if not always, at least generally. In dealing with all things, moral and physical, man deceives himself and is deceived, and never can tell the core by the rind. These are truisms, reader; very trite, very often repeated. I know it; I write them as such: but do you act upon them? or you? or you? Where is the man that does? And if there be a man, where is the woman? The demagogue is judged by his words, the preacher by his sermon, the statesman by his eloquence, the lover by his looks. All seeming--nothing but seeming; and it is not till we come to taste the fruit that we learn the real flavour.