After dinner had been served, “clean glasses and old corks” were festively proposed by the host. Some bottles of genuine spirits and a box of Havannas were placed on the board; an animated discussion on things agricultural and political followed, while ever and anon Jamblin and Cheadle would rise from their seats, repair to the window, and, flattening their noses against the panes thereof, would endeavour to distinguish a star in the sky, or the first beams of the rising moon. But the sky remained black and gloomy, and continual pattering of the rain was distinctly heard. “It’s no good, my fine fellows,” observed Richard Ashbrook. “You are in for it. The rain has set in for good, so you had better make up your minds to stop where you are. ‘Any port in a storm,’ as my uncle the captain used to say. Nobody will ever expect you home, such a night as this.” “You are very kind, Ashbrook, but――――” “Oh, bother your buts! I tell you I’ve got a couple of beds for ye. They are small iron bedsteads, both in the same room; but you don’t mind roughing it for one night, surely.” The farmer’s two friends accepted the offer, and prepared themselves to pass the hours merrily. This they had no difficulty in doing. Several games of whist were played, after which the host was called upon for a song. He was not quite in tune, but that did not matter. The other singers were equally deficient in that respect; but what was wanting in skill was made up by noise. Most of the ditties had a good, rattling chorus, which each singer interpreted according to his own fancy. After sundry libations, and much protestation of friendship and good-fellowship, the hour arrived for repose, and the two farmers, their visitors, and Maude betook themselves to their respective sleeping apartments. As Richard, who was the last, was about to ascend the stairs, he was touched gently on the elbow by a tall long-haired young woman, who was one of the domestics in the establishment. “Well, Jane, what’s up now, lass?” inquired the farmer. “Hush, master. This way.” She drew him back towards the entrance to the kitchen, and said in a low, mysterious tone of voice, “Are the guns loaded?” “Two of them are. But what of that?” “Load the others.” “Why, dash it――what ails thee, girl?” “Nothing, master. I can’t tell why, but I feel timmersome like, and fancy something bad is going to happen.” “If loading the other guns will do thee any good the remedy is easy enough,” observed the good-natured farmer, who at once proceeded to charge the other weapons. “Thanks, Mr. Richard, thanks!” exclaimed the girl, in a tone of evident satisfaction.