the rumble behind. The next instant the
carriage was whirling away; but the pedestrian,
seeing the condition of the footman, had swung
himself on to the hind step, and, crouching
down behind the rumble and its unconscious
occupant, obtained a shelter from the bitter
wind, and simultaneously a lift on his road.
There he crouched, clinging firmly with both
hands in close proximity to the enshrouded
knees of the unconscious footman — knees which,
during their owner's sleep, were very helpless
and rather comic, which smote each other in
the passage of every rut, and occasionally parted
and surveyed the dreary gulf of horsecloth
between them, to be brought together at the next
jolt with a very smart concussion — and there he
remained until the stopping of the carriage, and
a sharp cry of "Gate" from the coachman,
induced him to descend from his perch, and to
survey the state of affairs from that side of the
carriage most removed from a certain light and
bustle into which they had entered. For, on the
other side of the carriage to that on which the
stranger stood, was an old-fashioned stone lodge
with twinkling lights in its little mullioned
windows, and all its thousand ivy-leaves gleaming
in the carriage-lamps, and happy faces grouped
around its door. There was the buxom
lodgekeeper the centre of the group, with her comely
red face all aglow with smiles; and there was
her light-haired sheep-faced husband standing
by the swinging iron gates; and there were the
sturdy children, indulged with the unwonted
dissipation of "sitting up;" and there was the
gardener's wife awaiting to see company come
in, while her master had gone up to look at
fires in hothouses; and there were Kidd, the
head keeper, and little Tom, his poor idiot boy,
who clapped his hands at the whirling lights of
the carriages, and kept up an incessant boom
of imbecile happiness. Sheep-faced male
lodgekeeper bobbing so furiously as to insist on
recognition, down goes window of carriage
furthest from the stranger, and crisp on the
night air cries a sharp curt voice,

"How do, Bulger? Not late, eh? hum — ah!
not late?"

To which Bulger, pulling at invisible lock of
hair on forehead:

"No, Sir John! Lots company, Sir John!
Seasonable weather, Sir — "

But the carriage was whirled away before
Bulger could conclude, and before the stranger
could resume his place under the sheltering lee
of the now conscious footman. He shrank back
into the darkness — darkness deeper and thicker
than ever under the shadow of the tall elms
forming the avenue leading to the house, and
remained for a minute buried in thought.

The night was clear, and even light, with the
hard chilly light of stars, and the air was full
of cold — sharp, pitiless, and piercing. The wind
made itself heard but rarely, but spared the
wayfarer not one pang of its presence. He
shrank and shivered, as he peered from under
the gaunt branches of the trees after the
carriage with its glittering lights.

"Just like my luck!" he thought, bitterly.
"Nothing is to be wanting to make me feel
myself the outcast that I am. A stranger in
my mother's house, disowned and proscribed
by my mother's husband, slinking like a thief
behind the carriages of my mother's fine friends.
I will see my mother, I must see her; it is
a desperate chance, but surely it must
succeed. I've no doubt of her, God bless her! but
I have my doubts of her power to do what I
want."

He emerged from the shadow of the trees
again, and struck into the avenue. He
quickened his pace, shivering, and seeing the
long line of way lying level before him, in the
sombre glimmer of the night, he went on with
a more assured step. Angry and bitter thoughts
were keeping the young man company, a gloomy
wrath was in his dark, deep-set eyes, and the
hands which he thrust into his coat-pockets
clenched themselves with an almost fierce
impatience. He strode on, muttering, and trying
to keep up an air of hardihood (though there
was no one to be deceived but himself), which
was belied by the misgivings and remorse at his
heart.

"A fine place and a grand house, plenty of
money, and all that money gives, and no place
for her only son! I wonder how she likes it
al! No, no, I don't; I know she is not happy,
and it's my fault, and HIS." His face grew darker
and more angry, and he shook his clenched
hand towards a stately house, whose long
lighted facade now became visible.

"And his — his who married my mother, and
deceived her, who gave her hopes he never
intended to fulfil—my ill conduct the cause of his
forbidding her to bring me here! — he always
hated me; he hated me before he saw me,
before he ever knew that I was not a sucking
dove for gentleness, and a pattern of filial obedience
and propriety; he hated me because I
existed — because I was my mother's son; and
if I had been the most amenable of step-sons, he
would have hated me all the same, only he would
have shown his hatred differently, that's all. I
should have been brought here, and made to feel
insignificance, instead of being left to beg or
starve, for all he cares. I am better off as
it is."

A harsh smile came over his face for a moment.
"Quite a blackguard, and all but a beggar. All
but? No, quite a beggar, for I am coming to
beg of my mother — coming to your fine house,
Capel Carruthers, like a thief or a spy; slinking
in at your gates under cover of your fine
friends' fine carriages; a prodigal step-son, by
Jove, without the faintest chance of a welcome,
and every probability of being turned out,
if discovered. Company here, too, of all
nights in the year, to make it more difficult to
get hold of old Brookes unsuspected, but not so
unfortunate either, if I'm seen. Hangers about
are to be found even in the country, I suppose,
on festive occasions. There's the house at last!
A grand place, grim as it is under the stars,
with a twinkling firmament of its own on the