om
the window of the carriage: Jeffrey met it with the same question.

"Mr. Trevethlan," said the lady.

"Mr. Trevethlan's not at home," said the obstinate warder.

"Not at home, sir! What do you mean? Where is he?"

"He's not at home," Jeffrey repeated.

Mrs. Pendarrel mused for a moment.

"Miss Trevethlan is at home, I suppose?" she asked.

"Miss Trevethlan is not at home," was again the reply.

"This is insolence," the lady said. "Do you know, sir, who I am?"

"I think I know the Pendar'l liveries," answered Jeffrey.

"Home," said Mrs. Pendarrel to her servant. And the carriage rattled
down the descent.

A young man was leaning on the gate of the base-court: as the chariot
approached, he opened it, and stood cap in hand while the lady drove
through. She pulled the check-string, and beckoned the stranger to the
window.

"Do you belong to the castle?" she asked, when he drew near.

"No, in good truth, ma'am," the youth replied with a peculiar smile:
"I am a tenant of Pendar'l."

"What is your name?"

"Sinson, ma'am; Michael Sinson at your service, ma'am; grandson of old
Maud Basset."

"What!" exclaimed the lady hastily, "a relation----"

"The late Mrs. Trevethlan's nephew, ma'am," said Michael.

"Come to the hall to-morrow," Mrs. Pendarrel said; "I may be able to
employ you."

Michael made a cringing bow, and the carriage drove on.

"So," mused its occupant, "it is war. The old spirit does animate the
old ruin. A pleasant pastime, Henry Trevethlan, have you bequeathed
to your children. Long shall your race rue the day, when you took a
woman at her first word. Was not Esther Pendarrel worth asking twice?
Was it impossible to conciliate her pride, except by the sacrifice of
your own? Was no allowance to be made for the petulance of a girl
nursed by flattery? Was there no middle course? Might not Trevethlan
have been preserved, yet Pendarrel not extinguished? I smiled when you
left me: I smiled when I saw your rapid gallop down the avenue: I
smiled still, when I heard you were departed to London. No falconer's
voice, methought, will be required, 'to lure my tassel-gentle back
again.' A week--and another, and another--and no news. A month, and
news. His kinsman comes. To intercede for him? Ah, no. To tell me of
his folly, and to plead for himself. 'There is no fury like a woman
scorned.' I listened, but it was long before I consented. A bold
wooer truly was my worthy lord! Did he not venture to ur