Observing his lordship’s deepened gravity, and attributing it to his disappointment in regard to the chaise, the hostess hastened to add— “But, my lord, Jenkins has not yet gone home.” “Jenkins?—who may he be?” “Yes, my lord, Jenkins—Sir Parke Morelle’s man, who was sent here from the Hall this morning with the carriage to meet Lord Dazzleright, who didn’t arrive.” “And Jenkins, you say, has not gone back with the carriage.” “No, my lord; he is in the kitchen at this present moment, having a rasher and a pot of ale.” “Very well. When Jenkins has finished his repast, be good enough to send him here,” said Lord Montressor, rising from the table. “I will, my lord,” she replied, going out to obey. In a few minutes, the coachman from Hyde Hall entered the presence of his lordship. Here again was a recognition full of painful reminiscences! Jenkins was the gray-haired old man who had driven the carriage containing the bridal party, from the Hall to the church, on that fatal first of May. Lord Montressor had not seen him since that dark day. The old man stood respectfully, hat in hand, waiting his lordship’s commands. “How do you do, Jenkins? I hope the family at the Hall are well?” were Lord Montressor’s first words. “Hem—m—m, as well as usual, I believe, my lord,” replied the aged domestic, hesitatingly, though respectfully. Lord Montressor then announced that he had come down to visit Sir Parke Morelle, and would be pleased to have a seat in the homeward-bound carriage. The horses were feeding; but Jenkins would have them put to the carriage immediately; and bowing low, he went out to attend to the matter. Lord Montressor then called for a room, paid such attention to his toilet as the circumstances admitted, then went below, settled his reckoning, and entered the carriage that waited to take him to Hyde Hall. This was a fine, clear, bright winter morning. A light snow, that had fallen during the night, just covered the ground, and added to the cheerfulness of the scene. A slight frost, like the embroidering of fine pearls, just touched the trees. The little village was already gay with Christmas revelings. Misletoe and holly decked many of the doors and windows of the houses each side of the only street, at the head of which stood the “Morelle Arms,” and down which the carriage now drove. Neighbors hailed each other; children in troops ran gayly, with “Merry Christmas,” from dwelling to dwelling, or came out thence, with hands, hats, or pinafores, full of “goodies.” The carriage leaving the gay village street behind, passed on down the turnpike road leading through the common toward the park.