Anthelia had received intimations from various quarters of similar intentions on the part of various individuals, not less valuable than Sir Telegraph Paxarett in the scale of moral utility; and though there was not one among them for whom she felt the slightest interest, she thought it would be too uncourteous in a pupil of chivalry, and too inhospitable in the mistress of an old English castle, to bar her gates against them. At the same time she felt the want of a lord seneschal to receive and entertain visitors so little congenial to her habits and inclinations: and it immediately occurred to her that no one would be more fit for this honourable office, if he could be prevailed on to undertake it, than an old relation—a medium, as it were, between cousin and great-uncle; who had occasionally passed a week or a month with her father at Melincourt. The name of this old gentleman was Hippy—Humphrey Hippy, Esquire, of Hypocon House, in the county of Durham. He was a bachelor, and his character exhibited a singular compound of kind-heartedness, spleen, and melancholy, which governed him by turns, and sometimes in such rapid succession that they seemed almost co-existent. To him Anthelia determined on sending an express, with a letter entreating him to take on himself, for a short time, the superintendence of Melincourt Castle, and giving as briefly as possible her reasons for the request. In pursuance of this determination, old Peter Gray, a favourite domestic of Sir Henry, and, I believe, a distant relation of little Lucy,[5] was despatched the following morning to Hypocon House, where the gate was opened to him by old Harry Fell, a distant relation of little Alice, who, as the reader well knows, ‘belonged to Durham.’ Old Harry had become, by long habit, a curious species of animated mirror, and reflected all the humours of his master with wonderful nicety. When Mr. Hippy was in a rage, old Harry looked fierce; when Mr. Hippy was in a good humour, old Harry was the picture of human kindness; when Mr. Hippy was blue-devilled, old Harry was vapourish; when Mr. Hippy was as melancholy as a gib-cat, old Harry was as dismal as a screech-owl. The latter happened to be the case when old Peter presented himself at the gate, and old Harry accordingly opened it with a most rueful elongation of visage. Peter Gray was ready with a warm salutation for his old acquaintance Harry Fell; but the lamentable cast of expression in the physiognomy of the latter froze it on his lips, and he contented himself with asking in a hesitating tone, ‘Is Mr. Hippy at home?’ [Illustration: _Old Harry had become, by long habit, a curious species of animated mirror._] ‘He is,’ slowly and sadly articulated Harry Fell, shaking his head. ‘I have a letter for him,’ said Peter Gray. ‘Ah!’ said Harry Fell, taking the letter, and stalking off with it as solemnly as if he had been following a funeral.