morning, after a night's vigil within the walls,
the gamekeeper requested an audience of his
master, and declared his conviction that some
person not belonging to the family or its guests
—most probably one of the burglars' gang,
whose retreat had been cut—off was actually
secreted within the mansion!

Tom Ringwood's reasons for arriving at this
alarming conclusion were never precisely
known. They, at all events, satisfied his master,
who, with much discretion, concealing the fact
from all except his wife and eldest son, took
instant measures with a view to the surprise
and detection of the intruder.

It was arranged that, on the following day,
two policemen, properly disguised, should be
introduced into the house, and, accompanied by
an house architect, make such an exhaustive
scrutiny of its labyrinthine recesses, as should
satisfy them that the visitor, by whatever means
he obtained access, had no habitual hiding-place
within the walls, at all events, without the
connivance of one or other of the inhabitants.

The investigation, though laborious, produced
no fruit beyond a vast amount of dust, and the
rout and dissolution of a republic of sliders,
who had flourished in peace and prosperity for
at least a century. Sounding of panels, and
measuring of walls and floors, revealed nothing
more than extreme stability, and an aversion,
almost monomaniacal, to level and uniformity.
So convinced were those experienced officers
that nothing had escaped their search, that
they could not forbear congratulating Mr.
Blackacre on his prompt adoption of the only
effectual course; and so, handing over the
mansion to renewed tranquillity, took their leave.

On the next morning, Mr. Binns, the butler,
presented himself, with pale and anxious face,
and reported that one of the vacant rooms—Mr.
Charles's—had actually been "slep' in." Nor
was this all. The daring occupant had
absolutely turned out Mr. Charles's wardrobe on
the floor, and, selecting a full shooting-suit and
a pair of dress boots, had left, in their place,
his own dirty leather-laced highlows, a pair of
rough overalls, and a greasy hat.

All idea of keeping the secret vanished with
this new discovery. In justice to his guests,
Mr. Blackacre was constrained to announce, at
the breakfast-table, that his castle was no longer
entirely his own, and that, until this most
incomprehensible annoyance had been fairly got
rid of, he could not ensure his—at any other
time most welcome—visitors, from the possibility
of disturbance.

The hint was taken, and in a few hours the
party at Trestwood-Darenth was, with the
exception of one or two gentlemen who begged
to remain and be made of use, reduced to the
family themselves.

Poor Mr. Blackacre was much cast down at
this compulsory dismissal of guests. Nothing
in his cheerful, easy, genial life had ever
annoyed him so much. He sat in his wife's
boudoir, with his head on his hands, as if
incapable of taking any decided step to shake off the
incubus that oppressed him.

He had not been in his usual spirits for some
days even before the occurrences narrated.
He always missed his favourite son; and Charles,
who was rarely absent many days, had been
compelled to prolong his visit in the north, in
order to be present at the marriage of a near
connexion. He wrote, however, frequently,
condoling with his father as to the strange
disturbances, suggesting modes of inquiry, &c.
When informed of the foray upon his own
chamber, he wrote reassuringly, seeming rather
tickled with the cool audacity of the
perpetrator, but adding that he would instantly
return, to aid in unearthing the fox, unless
Mademoiselle Trautchen, whose fame in arms
had reached the north, should forestal him.

The latter passage being quoted to mademoiselle,
that warrior-maid smiled in a superior
manner, and declared her intention of taking
up her permanent night-quarters in the Chamber
Perilous, as holding out the chance of another
encounter with the marauder, who, ma'amselle
flattered herself, had already had reason to
respect her arm. Such influence had the little
lady, by dint of her combined pluck and sweetness,
gained by this time over the heads of the
family, that neither of them thought of opposing
her intention.

"Time was," observed Mr. Blackacre to his
wife, when they were alone, "when I did not
half like that little governess of yours. Of late, it
really seems as if one could not get on without
her. So gentle, so self-denying, so considerate.
What a creature it is! Talk of Joans of Arc!
Bosh! Tell me of Maids of Saragossa! Bah!"

"Her touch on the piano," began his wife——

"Her touch on the trigger," chuckled Mr.
Blackacre. And he sighed, for his wife did not
laugh, and he missed the cheery rejoinder:

"Ha, ha, ha! Good, sir—good!"

"I don't know how it is, my dear," resumed
the poor gentleman. "Perhaps it's the worry
of this thing; but I fear I am growing dull and
slow. My memory—wit, if you like it—somewhat
fails me. I find myself less quick, less
happy in retort than formerly. The table does
not roar when I have every right to expect it.
Perhaps, when Charley returns, I shall pluck up
again. His wit seems the touchstone, as it
were, of mine."

"I think, my love, there is one who fully
appreciates everything you say—ma'amselle.
She rarely laughs; but I have often noticed her
eyes twinkle and her lip curl at any clever
remark of yours, just like dear Charley's," said
Mrs. Blackacre.

"No; but have you?" cried her husband,
brightening visibly. "She's a nice, good girl,
as good as she is brave, and as clever as she is
good. And I—I wish—well, no matter."

"What do you wish, my dear?"

Her husband looked at her, but did not
reply.

Mrs. Blackacre smiled mysteriously.

"Shall I tell you a little secret, Henry?—
Do you know that I think—I rather think—
now, don't be vexed, my love—we can't help
these things—that there has been, there was, in