of, your Grace.'

'You torment me it is your way!' said the Duke querulously. 'Who's dead
in the village?'

'The oldest man--the old shepherd.'

'Dead at last--how old is he?'

'Ninety-four.'

'And I am only seventy. I have four-and-twenty years to the good!'

'I served under that old man when I kept sheep on Marlbury Downs. And he
was on the hill that second night, when I first exchanged words with your
Grace. He was on the hill all the time; but I did not know he was
there--nor did you.'

'Ah!' said the Duke, starting up. 'Go on--I yield the point--you may
tell!'

'I heard this afternoon that he was at the point of death. It was that
which set me thinking of that past time--and induced me to search on the
hill for what I have told you. Coming back I heard that he wished to see
the Vicar to confess to him a secret he had kept for more than twenty
years--"out of respect to my Lord the Duke"--something that he had seen
committed on Marlbury Downs when returning to the flock on a December
night twenty-two years ago. I have thought it over. He had left me in
charge that evening; but he was in the habit of coming back suddenly,
lest I should have fallen asleep. That night I saw nothing of him,
though he had promised to return. He must have returned, and--found
reason to keep in hiding. It is all plain. The next thing is that the
Vicar went to him two hours ago. Further than that I have not heard.'

'It is quite enough. I will see the Vicar at daybreak to-morrow.'

'What to do?'

'Stop his tongue for four-and-twenty years--till I am dead at
ninety-four, like the shepherd.'

'Your Grace--while you impose silence on me, I will not speak, even
though nay neck should pay the penalty. I promised to be yours, and I am
yours. But is this persistence of any avail?'

'I'll stop his tongue, I say!' cried the Duke with some of his old rugged
force. 'Now, you go home to bed, Mills, and leave me to manage him.'

The interview ended, and the steward withdrew. The night, as he had
said, was just such an one as the night of twenty-two years before, and
the events of the evening destroyed in him all regard for the season as
one of cheerfulness and goodwill. He went off to his own house on the
further verge of the park, where he led a lonely life, scarcely calling
any man friend. At eleven he prepared to retire to bed--but did not
retire. He sat down and reflected. Twelve o'clock struck; he looked out