A few hours later a carriage drew up before the threshold. A young man leaped to the ground and grasped with both of his the hand of the aged servitor. "How are you, Reynolds?" "God bless you, Mr. Ripon; God bless you." "And here is my wife, Reynolds. You remember her." The old man doffed his hat with a respectful formality. It was still a little against his grain to see an American his master's bride. "Welcome to Ripon House." Maggie shook him by the hand, and her father's bantering voice now startled his dignified mood. "So this is where you have been hiding all these years, Reynolds? You look like the wandering Arab, with your gray beard!" Mr. Windsor doubtless referred to the Wandering Jew, but he was no scholar, as he would himself have been the first to acknowledge. All laughed at the mistake, and none louder than the fourth member of the party, a tall, middle-aged man, with a noble but genial countenance. It was Richard Lincoln, to whom time had been generous during the six years which had flown since he was last at Ripon House. Despite the cares which had weighed upon his spirit, his brow was scarcely furrowed. He had come to be Geoffrey's guest for a few days and enjoy the tranquillity of the country. There were business matters also to be talked over with his friend, for Geoffrey had promised to take an active part in the public service of the country. The friends sat long that evening around the dinner-table. There was much pleasant talk, but every face wore a thoughtful look. The intervening time since last they had gathered here was too full of incident to be passed over lightly. Recollection stood beside the hearth, and yet with a finger on the lips, as though loath to jar the atmosphere of revery with a word. And yet there were references made to the past. Lincoln asked what had become of that strange man Jawkins. But no one knew further than that he had fled with the splendid beauty. "Is that woman's husband still living?" inquired Maggie. All shook their heads in doubt. "And dear old Sydney, do you know anything of him, Richard?" said Ripon. "Yes. Only a few weeks since he married an attractive little widow with a snug property. I had him pardoned, you may remember, among my first acts as Prime Minister. Prison life seemed to have agreed with him. He had lost his dyspeptic air." "That old scoundrel Bugbee had a curious end," observed Mr. Windsor. "To think of being bitten to death by a tarantula. Ugh! It seems he used to keep spiders under glass in his apartments, and this was one that escaped. And what an enormous fortune he left!"