he booth by the lake.

All the parish-young and old, man, woman, and child, were assembled
there, and their faces seemed to bear one family likeness, in the common
emotion which animated all, as they turned to his frank, fatherly smile.
Squire Hazeldean stood at the head of the long table: he filled a horn
with ale from the brimming tankard beside him. Then he looked round,
and lifted his hand to request silence; and ascending the chair, rose
in full view of all. Every one felt that the squire was about to make
a speech, and the earnestness of the attention was proportioned to the
rarity of the event; for (though he was not unpractised in the oratory
of the hustings) only thrice before had the squire made what could
fairly be called "a speech" to the villagers of Hazeldean,--once on a
kindred festive occasion, when he had presented to them his bride;
once in a contested election for the shire, in which he took more than
ordinary interest, and was not quite so sober as he ought to have
been; once in a time of great agricultural distress, when in spite of
reduction of rents, the farmers had been compelled to discard a large
number of their customary labourers, and when the squire had said, "I
have given up keeping the hounds because I want to make a fine piece of
water (that was the origin of the lake), and to drain all the low lands
round the Park. Let every man who wants work come to me!" And that sad
year the parish rates of Hazeldean were not a penny the heavier.

Now, for the fourth time, the squire rose, and thus he spoke,--at his
right hand, Harry; at his left, Frank; at the bottom of the table, as
vice-president, Parson Dale, his little wife behind him, only obscurely
seen. She cried readily, and her handkerchief was already before her
eyes.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE SQUIRE'S SPEECH.

"Friends and neighbours, I thank you kindly for coming round me this
day, and for showing so much interest in me and mine. My cousin was not
born amongst you as I was, but you have known her from a child. It is a
familiar face, and one that never frowned, which you will miss at your
cottage doors, as I and mine will miss it long in the old Hall--"

Here there was a sob from some of the women, and nothing was seen of
Mrs. Dale but the white handkerchief. The squire himself paused, and
brushed away a tear with the back of his hand. Then he resumed, with a
sudden change of voice that was electrical,--

"For we none of us prize a