John Bent laughed at the question. "Rich, sir? Him? Why, it's said he could almost buy up the world. He has one daughter; a beautiful young lady, who's going to be married to young Mr. Blake-Gordon, a son of Sir Richard. Many thought that Mr. Castlemaine--the present Master of Greylands--would have liked to get her for his own son. But----" In burst Mrs. Bent, a big cooking apron tied on over her gown. She looked slightly surprised at seeing the stranger-seated there; but said nothing. Unlocking the corner cupboard, and throwing wide its doors, she began searching for something on the shelves. "Here you are, Mrs. Bent! Busy as usual." The sudden salutation came from a gentleman who had entered the house hastily. A tall, well-made, handsome, young fellow, with a ready tongue, and a frank expression in his dark brown eyes. He stood just inside the door, and did not observe the stranger. "Is it you, Mr. Harry?" she said, glancing round. "It's nobody else," he answered. "What an array of jam pots! Do you leave the key in the door? A few of those might be walked off and never be missed." "I should like to see anybody attempt it," cried Mrs. Bent, wrathfully. "You are always joking, Mr. Harry." He laughed cordially. "John," he said, turning to the landlord, "did the coach bring a parcel for me?" "No, sir. Were you expecting one, Mr. Harry?" Mrs. Bent turned completely round from her cupboard. "It's not a trick you are thinking to play us, is it, sir? I have not forgotten that other parcel you had left here once." "Other parcel? Oh, that was ever so many years ago. I am expecting this from London, John, if you will take it in. It will come to-morrow, I suppose. Mrs. Bent thinks I am a boy still." "Ah no, sir, that I don't," she said. "You've long grown beyond that, and out of my control." "Out of everybody else's too," he laughed. "Where I used to get cuffs I now get kisses, Mrs. Bent. And I am not sure but they are the more dangerous application of the two." "I am very sure they are," called out Mrs. Bent, as the young man went off laughing, after bowing slightly to the stranger, who was now standing up, and whose appearance bespoke him to be a gentleman. "Who was that?" asked the stranger of John Bent. "That was Mr. Harry Castlemaine, sir. Son of the Master of Greylands." With one leap, the stranger was outside the door, gazing after him. But Harry Castlemaine, quick and active, was already nearly beyond view. When the stranger came back to his place again, Mrs. Bent had locked up her cupboard and was gone. "A fine-looking young man," he remarked. "And a good-hearted one as ever lived--though he is a bit random," said John. "I like Mr. Harry; I don't like his father." "Why not?" "Well, sir, I hardly know why. One is apt to take dislikes sometimes." "You were speaking of Greylands' Rest--of the rumours that went abroad respecting it when old Mr. Castlemaine died. What were they?"