h which the
servant had regarded his appearance.

We must now pass on to the morrow, and ask the reader's attention for a
few moments to a different scene.

In contact with Gray Forest upon the northern side, and divided by a
common boundary, lay a demesne, in many respects presenting a very
striking contrast to its grander neighbor. It was a comparatively modern
place. It could not boast the towering timber which enriched and
overshadowed the vast and varied expanse of its aristocratic rival; but,
if it was inferior in the advantages of antiquity, and, perhaps, also in
some of those of nature, its superiority in other respects was
striking, and important. Gray Forest was not more remarkable for its
wild and neglected condition, than was Newton Park for the care and
elegance with which it was kept. No one could observe the contrast,
without, at the same time, divining its cause. The proprietor of the one
was a man of wealth, fully commensurate with the extent and pretensions
of the residence he had chosen; the owner of the other was a man of
broken fortunes.

Under a green shade, which nearly met above, a very young man, scarcely
one-and-twenty, of a frank and sensible, rather than a strictly
handsome countenance, was walking, followed by half a dozen dogs of as
many breeds and sizes. This young man was George Mervyn, the only son
of the present proprietor of the place. As he approached the great
gate, the clank of a horse's hoofs in quick motion upon the sequestered
road which ran outside it, reached him; and hardly had he heard these
sounds, when a young gentleman rode briskly by, directing his look into
the demesne as he passed. He had no sooner seen him, than wheeling his
horse about, he rode up to the iron gate, and dismounting, threw it
open, and let his horse in.

"Ha! Charles Marston, I protest!" said the young man, quickening his pace
to meet his friend. "Marston, my dear fellow," he called aloud, "how glad
I am to see you."

There was another entrance into Newton Park, opening from the same road,
about half a mile further on; and Charles Marston made his way lie
through this. Thus the young people walked on, talking of a hundred
things as they proceeded, in the mirth of their hearts.

Between the fathers of the two young men, who thus walked so
affectionately together, there subsisted unhappily no friendly feelings.
There had been several slight disagreements between them, touching their
proprietary ri