up beneath the shade of the grand old
elms that line the majestic avenue and all but surround the mansion, and
the bones of twenty generations of Rookes now lie together beneath the
adjacent sod. Five years since the last of the family, Sir Whitewing
Rooke, was killed as he was returning towards home on a quiet autumn
evening. He was found lying under one of the tall elm-trees in the
avenue, pierced with a bullet that had passed through his heart. Whether
this occurred by accident or design, no one could ever tell; but there
were dark suspicions afloat, and rumour said that the Rookes were not
without their enemies.

Lady Rooke, the childless widow, mourned long for her husband, rarely
ventured beyond the boundary of the park, but spent most of her time in
endeavouring to benefit the neighbouring farmers, who had not gratitude
enough even to thank her for her services.

There was one exception. Young Gamecock, the owner of a small estate
adjoining Rookwood Park, was full of gratitude, and often called upon
Lady Rooke to thank her for her kindness. Mr. Gamecock was an
exceedingly good-looking fellow, dressed handsomely, always wore spurs,
and had more manners than any other farmer within twenty miles; and,
therefore, it is not to be wondered at that Lady Rooke somewhat
encouraged these gratitude-visits. Her Ladyship often complained how
dull and lonely she was, living without a protector in that old mansion,
whose walls were covered with ghastly portraits of departed Rookes; and
whose ancient casements rattled at night when the wind blew in its
fitful fancies, and made the very stairs groan as it rushed up and down
in its capricious impetuosity.

Young Gamecock listened to the good dame's stories, told her _he_ knew
no fear, that the wind might whistle as it willed for him; and that if
he owned such a mansion, that the old pictures should decorate the
garrets, where the bats and sparrows held undisputed possession.

At last people began to notice that young Gamecock went very often to
Rookwood Hall, and many surmises were soon afloat. Mr. Crow, a cousin
of the deceased Baronet's, laughed at the silly talk, as he called it,
and said that her Ladyship was about to make Mr. Gamecock her bailiff.
Mr. Howlet, the solicitor from the neighbouring village, shook his head,
looked "wondrous wise," but said nothing; and that pert gentleman, Mr.
Sparrow, reported that he had peeped in at the window one day, and knew
more than he