“No, no,” said the squire. “You will see him this evening; I have asked him to dine with us.” “Yes, yes, delighted,” purred the worthy bishop. “Strange mistake of mine, and yet I felt quite sure I had seen this Mr.----” “Faradeane,” supplied the squire. “Thanks, yes. I don’t remember the name in the least, and, as you may be aware, I pride myself on never forgetting a name. Who and what is this Mr. Faradeane? One of the local magnates?” “No,” replied the squire. “He has purchased a small house here--there it is, you can see the chimneys--and settled among us. I like him extremely.” “I should like to meet him,” said the bishop, amiably. “I very seldom forget a face, and his seems familiar to me.” “If you’ll come with me to his cottage, I’ll ask him to dine with us to-night. He is a most charming companion,” said the squire, eagerly. The bishop inclined his head, and the two men walked toward The Dell. As they did so they saw Faradeane in the garden, pacing up and down the gravel walk, and the squire stopped at the gate, and called to him. Faradeane walked toward them, but at sight of the bishop stopped suddenly. It was only for a moment, however, and he came and unlocked the gate. “Good-afternoon,” said the squire. “Let me introduce you to the Bishop of Latham, Faradeane.” Faradeane raised his hat, and the bishop followed suit, and smiled. “We have met before, Mr. Faradeane, have we not?” he said, pleasantly. Faradeane looked him straight in the face. “Your lordship mistakes me for a better man, I hope,” he said, with a smile. The bishop bowed with ready courtesy and self-possession. “It is not so, then. Pray forgive me.” “Dine with us to-night, will you, Faradeane?” said the squire, with affectionate familiarity. Faradeane hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Not to-night,” he said. The squire knew him too well to dream of pressing him; and the bishop, having exchanged a few words with him, he and the squire turned homeward. Half-an-hour later Bartley Bradstone left The Maples to walk to the Grange. Most men are nervous and restless on the day before their marriage, but Mr. Bartley Bradstone was nervous and restless to a remarkable degree. He had wandered about his huge house all day, bullying the workmen and the servants, and it was not until his brougham had been brought to the door that he had suddenly decided that it would do him good to walk instead of ride to the Grange. He had got himself dressed in his evening suit with even more than his usual care, as his badgered valet, driven almost to distraction, could testify, and he lit up a cigar at starting to steady his nerves. He had also drunk a full glass of brandy-and-water for the same reason. There was a short-cut through the wood--the same wood in which Faradeane had pleaded for Bertie--and, the moon lighting up every inch of the way, Mr. Bartley Bradstone decided to go through the wood.