unstrapped them, and trimmed the candles, and was gone.

"Is there anything you would like?" he asked. "A little whiskey? a glass
of sherry?"

"No, thanks,--nothing. I will come down to tea in a few minutes. It is
in the same old room, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, same as ever. By the bye, Griggs," he added suddenly, as he
laid his hand on the handle of the door, "how long is it since you were
here?"

"Three years and a month," I answered, after a moment's thought. "It
does not seem so long. I suppose that is because we have met abroad
since then."

"No, it does not seem long," said John Carvel, thoughtfully. Then he
opened the door, and went out without another word.

Nothing especially worthy of mention happened on that evening, nor on
the next day, nor for many days. I hunted a little, and shot a great
deal more, and spent many hours in the library. The weather improved in
the first week of December; it was rather warmer, and the scent lay very
well. I gave myself up to the pleasant country life, and enjoyed the
society of my host, without much thought of the present or care for the
future. Hermione had grown, since I had seen her, from a grave and
rather silent girl of seventeen to a somewhat less reserved young woman
of twenty, always beautiful, but apparently not much changed. Her
mother had taken her out in London during the previous season, and there
was occasionally some talk about London and society, in which the young
girl did not appear to take very much interest. With this exception the
people and things at Carvel Place were the same as I had always known
them. I was treated as one of the household, and was allowed to go my
own ways without question or interference. Of course, I had to answer
many questions about my wanderings and my doings in the last years, but
I am used to that and do not mind it.

All this sounds as though I were going to give you some quiet chronicle
of English country life, as if I were about to begin a report of
household doings: how Mrs. Carvel and Hermione went to church on Sunday;
how the Rev. Trumpington Soulsby used to stroll back with them across
the park on fine days, and how he and Miss Dabstreak raved over the
joyousness of a certain majolica plate; how the curate gently reproved,
yet half indulged, Chrysophrasia's erratic religionism; how Mrs. Carvel
distributed blankets to the old men and red cloaks to the old women; how
the deerhound followed Hermione like Mary's litt