"Now, sir," said the invading servant, "how long is my lady to wait?" "Who did you want to see?" asked the porter in turn. "Open the gates, sir: let us drive to the hall-door." "Troth," said Jeffrey, "this is the hall-door just now. Who did ye want to see?" Mrs. Pendarrel, slightly impatient, repeated her servant's demand from the window of the carriage: Jeffrey met it with the same question. "Mr. Trevethlan," said the lady. "Mr. Trevethlan's not at home," said the obstinate warder. "Not at home, sir! What do you mean? Where is he?" "He's not at home," Jeffrey repeated. Mrs. Pendarrel mused for a moment. "Miss Trevethlan is at home, I suppose?" she asked. "Miss Trevethlan is not at home," was again the reply. "This is insolence," the lady said. "Do you know, sir, who I am?" "I think I know the Pendar'l liveries," answered Jeffrey. "Home," said Mrs. Pendarrel to her servant. And the carriage rattled down the descent. A young man was leaning on the gate of the base-court: as the chariot approached, he opened it, and stood cap in hand while the lady drove through. She pulled the check-string, and beckoned the stranger to the window. "Do you belong to the castle?" she asked, when he drew near. "No, in good truth, ma'am," the youth replied with a peculiar smile: "I am a tenant of Pendar'l." "What is your name?" "Sinson, ma'am; Michael Sinson at your service, ma'am; grandson of old Maud Basset." "What!" exclaimed the lady hastily, "a relation----" "The late Mrs. Trevethlan's nephew, ma'am," said Michael. "Come to the hall to-morrow," Mrs. Pendarrel said; "I may be able to employ you." Michael made a cringing bow, and the carriage drove on.