‘A pleasant reception,’ thought Peter Gray, ‘instead of the old ale and cold sirloin I dreamed of.’ Old Harry tapped three times at the door of his master’s chamber, observing the same interval between each tap as is usual between the sounds of a muffled drum: then, after a due pause, he entered the apartment. Mr. Hippy was in his night-gown and slippers, with one leg on a cushion, suffering under an imaginary attack of the gout, and in the last stage of despondency. Old Harry walked forward in the same slow pace till he found himself at the proper distance from his master’s chair. Then putting forth his hand as deliberately as if it had been the hour-hand of the kitchen clock, he presented the letter. Mr. Hippy took it in the same manner, sank back in his chair as if exhausted with the effort, and cast his eyes languidly on the seal. Immediately his eyes brightened, he tore open the letter, read it in an instant, sprang up, flung his night-gown one way, his night-cap another, kicked off his slippers, kicked away his cushion, kicked over his chair, and bounced downstairs, roaring for his coat and boots, and his travelling chariot, with old Harry capering at his heels, and re-echoing all his requisitions. Harry Fell was now a new man. Peter Gray was seized by the hand and dragged into the buttery, where a cold goose and a flagon of ale were placed before him, to which he immediately proceeded to do ample justice; while old Harry rushed off with a cold fowl and ham for the refection of Mr. Hippy, who had been too seriously indisposed in the morning to touch a morsel of breakfast. Having placed these and a bottle of Madeira in due form and order before his master, he flew back to the buttery, to assist old Peter in the demolition of the goose and ale, his own appetite in the morning having sympathised with his master’s, and being now equally disposed to make up for lost time. Mr. Hippy’s travelling chariot was rattled up to the door by four high-mettled posters from the nearest inn. Mr. Hippy sprang into the carriage, old Harry vaulted into the dicky, the postilions cracked their whips, and away they went, Over the hills and the plains, Over the rivers and rocks,