We will save the reader (and ourselves) the trouble of wading through the mire of that most senseless abuse of the Queen’s-English, and her subjects’ common sense, yclept “legal phraseology;” which ought to be rendered illegal without delay; and proceed at once to state that, in the event of plain Thomas Crawley (not then be-knighted) dying intestate and without issue, the property was to revert to the eldest son of Reginald-Carrington, &c. &c., which Reginald, as the reader may probably conjecture, was the “cut off” son of Sir Hugh, and the father of the present rector of Ashburn. Ernest Carrington, therefore, the _ci-devant_ mathematical and classical master of Dr. Donkiestir’s school at Tickletown, was now lord of the manor of Ashburn, patron of his own living, and owner of Ashburn Priory, besides, if he chose to revive the dormant title, a baronet also. On hearing this announcement, that fine young man, Mr. Peter Crawley, said a naughty word, and then tried to look as if somebody else had done it, frowning portentously at the oldest ravening wolf, who, with the rest of the pack, appeared eager to turn and rend somebody, and were only restrained from an outbreak of ferocity by the tightness of their (black) sheep’s clothing; while the Misses Horse-leech, despite their bombazine and flounces, cast sanguinary glances on Mr. Selby, and would probably there and then have fixed upon him and exhausted his vital fluid, albeit his personal appearance was scarcely suggestive of an agreeable esculent, but for the presence of the bystanders. The Rosebud heard the news before she slept that night--slept, did we say?--poor little self-tortured victim to a delusion of the arch-enemy--if agonised sobs, threatening to part soul and body; if pale cheeks, throbbing bosom, streaming eyes, and burning brow, be signs of sleep, then indeed was the expression rightly chosen. Ernest also, either by some strange vibration of the sympathetic chain which unites those who truly love--(my dear strong-minded old gentleman, albeit you are the “father of a family,” and a fair specimen of the ancient Turk of private life into the bargain, your saying “Pish! folly! German rubbish!” does not affect me in the slightest degree--probably because the sympathetic link which so much offends you, does _not_ unite our spirits, which will, I fear, always more or less effervesce rather than mingle, by being brought in contact with one another)--Ernest also, either from some sympathetic influence, or from the natural impetuosity of his disposition, was so restless and excited that night, that he determined the next day should decide whether he was to be more happy, or more miserable, than anybody had ever been before--except, perhaps, the _few_ other ardent young men who have “lived and loved,” and got into desperate states of mind about it, since the days when Noah went a-yachting.