“He gone up sty’ars, sah, tuggin’ he dog arter him, an’ I heah him lock he do’. I make Sam Trotter k’yar him some breakfas’, an’ Sam say Marse Lewis hardly corndescen’ ter open de do’, an’ didn’ eat nuttin’ hardly.” Skelton was troubled at this. It was a sure sign that Lewis was in trouble when he clung desperately to Service, his dog. Skelton had his breakfast on a little round table in the corner of the hall by the fire, and when it was taken away he sat moodily in the same spot, trifling with a cigar. He had almost forgotten the ball the night before. From where he sat his weary eyes took in all the sad and monotonous landscape--the river, now a sea of grey mist as far as the eye could reach; the sullen lapping of the water upon the sandy stretch of shore, distinctly heard in the profound stillness; and the steady drip, drip, of the rain from the roof, and the tall elms, and the stunted alders by the edge of the water, was inexpressibly cheerless. Even the great hall, as he looked around it, was dreary. There were neither women nor children in that house, and it never had an inhabited look. Over everything was an air of chill and precise elegance that often struck Skelton painfully. His glance swept involuntarily to the portrait of his father, taken when a boy, that so much resembled Lewis; and then, as his eye travelled round upon the pictures of the dead and gone Skeltons, he was solemnly reminded how short had been their lives. They were all young; there was not a grey head in the lot. Presently he rose and stood before the fire, gazing out of the window with melancholy indifference, and after a while Bulstrode slouched across the farther end of the hall. He did not go near Skelton, who unconsciously grew rigid when he recognised Bulstrode’s passing presence. He had not for one instant forgotten Bulstrode’s foolish and, to him, exasperating disclosure to Mrs. Blair; but, after all, nothing ever could restrain that reckless tongue. Getting angry over it was the poorest business imaginable. In a short while Skelton went off to his room. The house, where twelve hours before there had been lights and music, and dancing and feasting, was now as quiet as the grave. The only sound heard was the incessant drip, drip, of the water from the eaves of the house, and from the sodden trees, and from the damp masses of shrubbery, and the moaning of the grey river. Over the whole place, where last night had been a great _fête_, was rain and gloom and sadness; and of the three persons whose splendid home was here, each was alone and wrapped in silent and bitter meditation.