All the parish--young and old, man, woman, and child--were assembled there, and their faces seemed to bear one family likeness, in the common emotion which animated all, as they turned to his frank fatherly smile. Squire Hazeldean stood at the head of the long table: he filled a horn with ale from the brimming tankard beside him. Then he looked round, and lifted his hand to request silence; and, ascending the chair, rose in full view of all. Every one felt that the Squire was about to make a speech, and the earnestness of the attention was proportioned to the rarity of the event; for (though he was not unpractised in the oratory of the hustings) only thrice before had the Squire made what could fairly be called "a speech" to the villagers of Hazeldean--once on a kindred festive occasion, when he had presented to them his bride--once in a contested election for the shire, in which he took more than ordinary interest, and was not quite so sober as he ought to have been--once in a time of great agricultural distress, when, in spite of reduction of rents, the farmers had been compelled to discard a large number of their customary labourers; and when the Squire had said,--"I have given up keeping the hounds, because I want to make a fine piece of water, (that was the origin of the lake,) and to drain all the low lands round the park. Let every man who wants work come to me!" And that sad year the parish rates of Hazeldean were not a penny the more. Now, for the fourth time, the Squire rose, and thus he spoke. At his right hand, Harry; at his left, Frank. At the bottom of the table, as vice-president, Parson Dale, his little wife behind him, only obscurely seen. She cried readily, and her handkerchief was already before her eyes. CHAPTER XXIX. THE SQUIRE'S SPEECH. "Friends and neighbours,--I thank you kindly for coming round me this day, and for showing so much interest in me and mine. My cousin was not born amongst you as I was, but you have known her from a child. It is a familiar face, and one that never frowned, which you will miss at your cottage doors, as I and mine will miss it long in the old hall--" Here there was a sob from some of the women, and nothing was seen of Mrs Dale but the white handkerchief. The Squire himself paused, and brushed away a tear with the back of his hand. Then he resumed, with a sudden change of voice that was electrical-- "For we none of us prize a blessing till we have lost it! Now, friends and neighbours,--a little time ago, it seemed as if some ill-will had crept into the village--ill-will between you and me, neighbours!--why, that is not like Hazeldean!" The audience hung their heads! You never saw people look so thoroughly ashamed of themselves. The Squire proceeded-- "I don't say it was all your fault; perhaps it was mine." "Noa--noa--noa," burst forth in a general chorus.