Charity drew back, and admitted a man of about five-and-twenty years, clad in respectable but not fashionable garments, and with an amused look in his eyes. "I do believe your maid thinks I've come to steal the spoons," said he. "I could scarce win her to let me in. Well, does nobody know me? Don't you, Grandmother?" "Why, sure! 'tis never David Lewthwaite?" responded Lady Louvaine in some excitement. "'Tis David Lewthwaite, the son of your daughter Milisent," said he, laughing. "Why, who was to know you, my boy?" asked his Aunt Edith. "We have not seen you but once since we came, and you have changed mightily since then." "When last we saw you," said Temperance, "your chin was as smooth as the hearthstone, and now you've got beard enough to fit out a flock of goats." "Ah! I'd forgot my beard was new. Well, I have been remiss, I own: but I will expound another time the reasons why you saw us not oftener. To-night, methinks, you'll have enough to do to hearken to the cause which has brought me at last." "No ill news, David, I trust?" asked his grandmother, growing a shade paler. "None, Madam. And yet I come to bring news of death." "Of whose death?" "Of the death of Oswald Louvaine, of Selwick Hall." There was a cry from Edith--"O David, can you possibly mean--is Selwick come back to us?" "Oswald Louvaine died unwedded, and hath left no will. His heir-at-law is my cousin Aubrey here." "May the Lord help him to use it wisely!" said his grandmother, with emotion. "Amen!" said David, heartily. "And now, Madam, as I have not stolen the spoons, may I let somebody else in, that I left round the corner?--whom, perchance, you may care rather to see than me." "Prithee bring whom thou wilt, David; there shall be an hearty welcome for him." "Well, I rather guess there will be," said David, as he walked out of the parlour. "Dear heart, but who is talking fast enough to shame a race-horse?" "Well, now, you don't say so!" was what met David's ear as he unlatched the gate of the White Bear. "And you've come from Camberwell, you say? Well, that's a good bit o' walking, and I dare be bound you're weary. I'd--" "I cry you mercy,--Cumberland," said a silvery voice in amused tones. "Dear heart! why, that's a hundred mile off or more, isn't it? And how many days did it take you?--and how did you come--o' horseback?--and be the roads very miry?--and how many of you be there?--and what kin are you to my Lady Lettice, now? and how long look you to tarry with her?" "My mistress," said David, doffing his hat, "an't like you, I am a lawyer; and to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, if you desire it, will I be at your service in the witness-box, for two shillings the week and my diet. For to-night, I wish you good even." "Lack-a-daisy!" was all that Mrs Abbott could utter, as David rescued the owner of the silvery voice, and bore her off, laughing, to the White Bear.