But now Mr. Binns came in with the household letter-bag—a leather case, which bore Sir Nigel’s name and arms on a brass plate, and its contents (always so welcome at a country breakfast-table) were distributed amongst us. There were newspapers and letters for all present but me, luckily. I say luckily, for I was hourly in fear of having my short leave cancelled, and receiving a summons from the colonel to head-quarters. "Lord Slubber de Gullion expresses great surprise that we are staying so long in Scotland," said the Countess of Chillingham, as she rapidly read over a letter written in a large, round-text hand. "An old bore, mamma." "Don’t say so, Louisa." The name, which is as near the original as I dare give it, sounded oddly; but there came a time when it was to prove a sad name to me. "You know Slubber?" said Berkeley, in a low voice, to me. I shook my head. On which he resumed— "He is an old peer of a good Anglo-Norman line, as the name imports; rich as a Jew, and sails one of the best yachts that ever loosed canvas at Cowes; a house in Piccadilly; a box at the opera; another of a different kind in the Highlands; a moor in Ireland—bog, some people call it; an excellent stud, and pack of hounds; a glorious cellar. Rich old fellow, indeed; a great chum of my father’s. His dinners are said to be—haw—perfection, from the caviare on sliced bread, _à la Russe_, to the coffee and curaçoa, the mocha and maraschino." The ladies were all busy with their crossed and recrossed epistles from friends, gossips, and correspondents. My uncle was put in excellent humour by a missive from a meeting of the heritors and others interested in the county hunt, assigning to him the mastership of the hounds, with a couple of thousands per annum towards his expenses, and the defray of damages, if he undertook to hunt the country between the Firths of Forth and Tay. "You have some jolly good hunters in the—haw—stables, Sir Nigel," said Berkeley, who was somewhat of a sporting man. "Yes, fairish." "Dunearn is a clean-limbed animal," said the general. "Yes; but he was not improved by your gallop among the melon beds," replied Sir Nigel, laughing. "Cost me four hundred and fifty pounds, that horse did. Saline, the grey, with the dark fetlocks, is a better hunter for clearing fences, and crossing a stiff country, and yet cost me only two hundred and ten pounds." After opening his third or fourth letter, Berkeley evidently received news that was not pleasant, for I heard him mutter almost an oath, as he said, uneasily— "Jockeyed! Sold by the jockey, Trayner! A cheque on his bank for the amount; about as good as one on the Banks of Newfoundland." "No bad news, Berkeley, I hope," said my uncle.