IN WHICH RICHARD TALLANT VISITS BARTON HALL AGAIN, AND ARTHUR PHILLIPS COMPLETES A GREAT WORK. The news of Mr. Christopher Tallant’s death brought down his son by the earliest train. He hired a fly at the Avonworth Hotel, and reached Barton in the afternoon of a cold November day. He felt that his conduct had hurried on the sad event which brought him once again in the vale of Avonworth. The telegram which Phœbe had considered it her duty to send to him, had for a moment struck him down like a blow. But of late he had so thoroughly schooled himself to his fate, had so trampled upon conscience and feeling, that he soon recovered his former coolness. The thought occurred to him whether any change had been made in the will which he knew had been signed in his favour. Was this fine estate his own? Were those fields and woods his? Had that property in Yorkshire, those splendid farms on the wolds, reverted to the only son of Christopher Tallant? How much had the old man left? It occurred to him that his father might have changed his will, indeed he had every reason to believe that such had been his intention. But he would not let this more than probable contingency have a settled place in his thoughts; for the desire of possession came upon him as the country conveyance dragged slowly along through the fine well-timbered park which had been fields within his own memory--fields overgrown with hedges and elm trees, and gorse and brushwood. The blinds were down in all parts of the house, and Chester, the late Mr. Tallant’s man, opened the hall door slowly, and took Mr. Richard’s coat and hat without a smile or a word. “Where is my sister?” said Richard, with an air of authority and command. “I will inquire, sir,” said the old man. “Tell her to come to me in the library; and look here, bring me some dry sherry.” “Yes, sir,” said Chester. Richard Tallant had qualms of conscience as he entered the familiar hall; a sense of fear came over him; he remembered all of a sudden the thousand acts of parental kindness and liberality that had been lavished upon him. Conscience would not let him forget all this, and honour reminded him how low he had fallen; so he spoke loud and gave commands, and assumed a tone of authority. Phœbe soon came, pale and careworn, and with the tears in her eyes, she submitted to be kissed, and she kissed Richard in return, but she said not a word. “Have you nothing to say?” Richard asked, after a few moments; “no explanation to give?” “Don’t ask me for explanations--Chester will tell you about it,” she replied, softly and tenderly. “Oh, very well, as you please, as you please,” he said, assisting himself to the sherry. “Will you come up-stairs and see him?” Phœbe asked, putting her hand upon his arm, and wondering for a moment at his changed appearance. He could not meet the glance of those big inquiring eyes.