Through the same cold sunlight--colder as the day declines--and through the same sharp wind--sharper as the separate shadows of bare trees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touched at the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night--they drive into the park. The Rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath; some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come down; some arguing with malcontents who won't admit it; now, all consenting to consider the question disposed of; now, all breaking out again in violent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird, who will persist in putting in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the traveling chariot rolls on to the house; where fires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that. Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance, and receives Sir Leicester's customary shake of the hand with a profound courtesy. "How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you." "I hope I have the honor of welcoming you in good health, Sir Leicester?" "In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell." "My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rouncewell, with another courtesy. My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be. But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my Lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she may have conquered, asks: "Who is that girl?" "A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa." "Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even an appearance of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?" she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers. Rosa, very much abashed, says "No, if you please, my Lady!" and glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, but looks all the prettier. "How old are you?" "Nineteen, my Lady." "Nineteen," repeats my Lady, thoughtfully. "Take care they don't spoil you by flattery." "Yes, my Lady." My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers, and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicester pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what to make of it--which was probably his general state of mind in the days of Queen Elizabeth.