The shutters of Mr. Denison's sitting-room had not been closed this evening. A bright wood-fire was burning on the hearth, and two lighted wax candles stood on a table in the middle of the room. The tall gaunt figure of the Squire as he sat in his great leathern chair, muffled up in his long dressing-robe, was plainly visible to the group on the lawn. His head looked partially shrunken between his shoulders as he sat leaning forward a little, staring intently into the fire, his bony hands clasped over the knob of the massive cane which for a long time past he had made use of to help him from room to room. The firelight flickered on the diamonds in his ring; it made the hollows of his wasted cheeks seem deeper still, and brought into prominent relief the contrast between his black velvet skull-cap and the long white locks which straggled from under it. He sat there, the solitary living figure in a picture that otherwise was instinct with gloom, and that was not wanting in a sort of weird solemnity of its own. At a signal from their leader, the band struck up the old English air, "Welcome to thy Native Vale." As the first note struck his ear, the Squire lifted his head quickly, changed the position of his stick, and put on the air of a man who listens intently. The first piece at an end, there ensued a minute's pause, and then the band struck up again. This in turn was followed by two other pieces. When the last strains of the fourth air had died away, the Squire was seen to rise slowly and painfully to his feet. With the help of his cane, and drawing the folds of his dressing-gown around him, he tottered feebly forward till he came near the window. Standing there, and changing his cane to the left hand, he gravely bent his head to the (to him) invisible onlookers in the garden, and waved his right hand two or three times in token of thanks and greeting. Turning then, he tottered back to his chair. Three hearty cheers were raised for the old Squire; and the musicians filed out of the private garden, Hubert locking the door of it. A plentiful meal was set out for them in the smaller servants' hall, to which they did not fail to do ample justice. Old Aaron, grumpy as usual, did not choose to preside at it, though his grandson had told him in the hearing of the household, earlier in the evening, that it was what he ought to do. Barely did he condescend to show himself at all, for this visit of the musicians had not met with his approval. He came stalking through the room while they were at supper, looking at them in his surly way, and muttering to himself about "ruin" and "extravagance," and "dying in the workhouse." But the ale was strong, and the company did not mind. They knew old Aaron before, and they burst into a laugh as he shut the door behind him. CHAPTER V. MR. CHARLES PLACKETT CALLS UPON THE SQUIRE.