gap in the hedge, by the old pollard-oak,"
said Richard; "and come round by the front of the house. Why, you're not
afraid, are you?"

"I am a stranger."

"Shall I introduce you? I told you that I knew the old couple."

"Oh, no, sir! I would rather meet them alone."

"Go; and--wait a bit-hark ye, young man, Mrs. Avenel is a cold-mannered
woman; but don't be abashed by that." Leonard thanked the good-natured
stranger, crossed the field, passed the gap, and paused a moment
under the stinted shade of the old hollow-hearted oak. The ravens were
returning to their nests. At the sight of a human form under the tree
they wheeled round and watched him afar. From the thick of the boughs,
the young ravens sent their hoarse low cry.

CHAPTER XXV.

The young man entered the neat, prim, formal parlour. "You are welcome!"
said Mrs. Avenel, in a firm voice. "The gentleman is heartily welcome,"
cried poor John.

"It is your grandson, Leonard Fairfield," said Mrs. Avenel. But John,
who had risen with knocking knees, gazed hard at Leonard, and then fell
on his breast, sobbing aloud, "Nora's eyes!--he has a blink in his eye
like Nora's."

Mrs. Avenel approached with a steady step, and drew away the old man
tenderly.

"He is a poor creature," she whispered to Leonard; "you excite him. Come
away, I will show you your room." Leonard followed her up the stairs,
and came into a room neatly and even prettily furnished. The carpet and
curtains were faded by the sun, and of old-fashioned pattern; there was
a look about the room as if it had been long disused. Mrs. Avenel sank
down on the first chair on entering. Leonard drew his arm round her
waist affectionately: "I fear that I have put you out sadly, my
dear grandmother." Mrs. Avenel glided hastily from his arm, and her
countenance worked much, every nerve in it twitching, as it were; then,
placing her hand on his locks, she said with passion, "God bless you, my
grandson," and left the room.

Leonard dropped his knapsack on the floor, and looked around him
wistfully. The room seemed as if it had once been occupied by a female.
There was a work-box on the chest of drawers, and over it hanging
shelves for books, suspended by ribbons that had once been blue, with
silk and fringe appended to each shelf, and knots and tassels here and
there,--the taste of a woman, or rather of a girl, who seeks to give a
grace to the commonest things around her. With the mechanical habit of
a st