nnings muttered.

They set down the two empty glasses. Stephen lit his pipe. He sat
smoking stolidly, blowing out great clouds of smoke. Jennings retreated,
coughing resentfully.

"Spoils the taste of good wine, that tobacco do," he snapped. "Good port
like that should be left to lie upon the palate, so to speak. Bless me,
what's that?"

Above the roar of the wind came another and unmistakable sound. The
front door had been opened and shut. There were steps upon the stone
floor of the hall--firm, familiar steps.

Jennings, with his mouth open, stood staring at the door. Stephen slowly
turned his head. The hand which held his pipe was as firm as a rock, but
there was a queer little gleam of expectation in his eyes. Then the door
was thrown open and John entered. The rain was dripping from his
clothes. He was breathless from his struggle with the elements.

The two other men looked at him fixedly. They both realized the same
thing at the same moment--there was no trace of the returned prodigal in
John's countenance, or in his buoyant expression. The ten-mile ride
seemed to have brought back all his color.

"Master John!" Jennings faltered.

Stephen said nothing. John crossed the room and gripped his brother's
hand.

"Wet through to the skin, and starving!" he declared. "I thought I'd
find something at Ketton, but it was all I could do to get Gibson, at
the George, to lend me a horse. Give me a glass of wine, Jennings. I'll
change my clothes--I expect you've kept them aired."

Not a word of explanation concerning his sudden return, nor did either
of the two ask any questions. They set the bell clanging in the
stable-yard and found shelter for the borrowed horse. Presently, in dry
clothes, John sat down to a plentiful meal. His brother watched him with
a grim smile.

"You haven't forgotten how to eat in London, John," he remarked.

"If I had, a ten-mile ride on a night like this would help me to
remember! How's the land doing?"

"Things are backward. The snow lay late, and we've had drying winds."

"And the stock?"

"Moderate. We are short of heifers. But you didn't come back from London
to ask about the farm."

John pushed back his plate and drew his chair opposite to his brother's.

"I did not," he assented. "I came back to tell you my news."

"I was thinking that might be it," Stephen muttered.

John crossed the room, found his pipe in a drawer, filled it with
tobacco, and lit it.

"Old man," he