Even this office had its shade of sadness, pleasant as it is at ordinary times to prepare for those who come to enliven solitude or break a monotony, which even of itself savours of gloom; the task is not so agreeable if undertaken for those who come to inspect what will be their own hereafter; what, even as they survey, they seem half inclined to grasp; what, while they look at, they speculate on the changes they will effect in, thinking of that day when he, who now does the honours, shall have left the stage, and they themselves become the actors. Kate, however, accompanied him everywhere, aiding by her counsels and assisting by her suggestions, and serving in this way to dispel much of that depression which the task imposed. It was, as they both were returning from one of the gardens, that a keeper came forward with a dead pheasant in his hand. [Illustration: 295] “A hen! Michael, a hen!” cried Sir Within, with displeasure. “Yes, Sir, and a very fine one. It was the gentleman who has just come to Dinasllyn shot her this morning. I met him coming up here to excuse himself to you, and say how sorry he was. He gave me this card, and hoped you’d not be displeased at it.” “What’s the name? I have not got my glass, Kate.” “Mr. George Grenfell, Sir, Dover-street.” “Grenfell, Grenfell--never heard of any Grenfells but Cox and Grenfell, the Piccadilly people, eh?” Kate gave no answer, but still held the card, with her eyes fixed upon it. “Sad thing to shoot a hen--very sad thing--and a remarkably fine bird; quite young, quite young,” muttered Sir Within to himself. “Could scarcely be the game sauce Grenfell, I think, eh, Kate? This apology smacks of the gentleman. What was he like, Michael?” “A fine-looking man, Sir, standing as tall as me; and about thirty-six or thirty-eight, perhaps. He had a nice spaniel with him, Sir, one of the Woburn breed; I know ‘em well.” “I’m sorry he shot that hen. Ain’t you, Kate?” But Kate was deep in thought, and did not hear him. CHAPTER XXXIV. SIR WITHIN’S GUESTS A short, somewhat plump, dark-eyed young man, with a low but wide forehead, and a well-formed but rather thick-lipped mouth, lay in his dressing-gown on the sofa smoking, and at intervals conversing with a smart-looking valet. These were Mr. Adolphus Ladarelle, and his man Fisk. The time--a little past midnight; the place--a bedroom in Dalradern Castle. “The governor gone to bed yet, Fisk?” “No, Sir; he’s still talking with the old gent. They seemed to have had high words of it awhile ago, but they’ve got quiet again.” “The governor came down expressly for that! He likes a bit of a breeze, too, and I believe it does him good.” “Well, indeed I think you’re right, Sir! I never seed him in such health as after that trial where Mr. Hythe, the cashier, was sentenced to fourteen years. It was just like putting so much to the master’s own life.”