Yet, as it has been said, the temper that reigned within the oak parlour of Farrant Chace was no whit more cheerful than the weather on the moor. Indeed, my lord Viscount Rockhurst—on his way back from France, obliged to halt by stress of weather at the house of a fellow-traveller—looked more particularly disqualified than usual to wear the nickname bestowed upon him by the “merry Monarch” himself in mockery of his wild favourite’s invariable gravity. “Merry Rockhurst”—never less merry of aspect than to-night. His long legs extended toward the embers, he lay rather than sat in the straight-backed chair of honour beside the hearth. His head with its chiselled features, worn, keen, witty, was sunken on his breast; his eyes were fixed abstractedly upon the darting flame, his hands inertly folded. For some ten minutes he had not uttered a word or altered his attitude, and the silent immobility of his guest was beginning to tell heavily upon the nerves of Sir Paul Farrant, his young host. Sir Paul bit his lip, paced the room three or four times; then halted before the card-table, which stood askew against the wall, as if it had been thrust aside by an impatient hand. He took up the dice-box, dangled it, dropped it; flipped a few of the scattered cards, his eyes ever wandering back to his companion; a hesitating phrase, ever checked upon his lips. Now he went to the window, pulled the curtains aside and peered forth. “More snow—more snow! Ugh, ’tis plaguey cold!” he cried, with exaggerated airiness, returning to the hearth and spreading his hands to the blaze. “The drifts are rising higher and higher,” he pursued. “No hope for the road, ’tis not fit weather for a dog.” The figure in the great chair stirred, a lazy voice was raised:— “Certainly not weather for a gentleman.” The other leaped to the symptom of restored companionship. “As you say, my lord, very vile weather indeed. Not fit for us to travel in, for very truth.” Lord Rockhurst’s long eyelids flickered. “Sir,” said he, with marked deliberation, his gaze still fixed on the fire, “I spoke in the singular.” Sir Paul’s hand, still stretched toward the glow, suddenly trembled. He had a young, smooth face, transparent to emotion; it grew scarlet. “And what might your lordship mean by that?” he asked, breathing quicker. Lord Rockhurst shifted his person to a more erect attitude, and turned his satiric face toward the speaker. The elder by some fifteen years, he had none of the genial gleam in his eye, none of the something almost fatherly with which the mature man of kindly mettle regards youth.—Lord Rockhurst’s gaze was colder than the wind that whistled in the leaves, bleaker than the moorland waste. “I do not desire to qualify you,” said he. From its uneasy flush, the young face went white. “My lord, my lord!…” But Rockhurst raised his hand with a commanding gesture.