At any rate, it was a good thing the parish
was rid of him.

The last time he had to do with Humble
was in a poaching business. The squire's
gamekeeper came and knocked him up one
night, to go with him to look after three men
who had got into the preserve. They hurried
off—found nobody in the preserve—but saw
three men lurking outside the palings. The
men ran off, on seeing them, but one of them
slipped on the grass, and fell. So they seized
him, on suspicion. This was James Humble.
He said he was a hinnocent man, and refused
to go to the lock-up. Accordingly, they had
to force him all the way to the lock-up, which
was close against the magistrate's house, full
three miles off. It took them all night to get
him there—from eleven o'clock at night till
four in the morning. While they were thus
engaged, "somebody" went into the preserve,
and deliberately bagged half the game that
was there. Nothing could be proved against
Humble, and the reverend magistrate was
obliged to let him go, with a severe
reprimand, and a solemn warning to take care
what he was about—which Humble promised
to do.

We have now described two "festive
boards;" the third, and greatest, is yet to
come.

The family of the Framptons comprised old
Mr. Frampton, who was a retired tea-
merchant; his wife; his son Frank, a country
youth, of nineteen, devoted to dogs and a
duck-gun; three marriageable daughters;
two housemaids; a good plain cook; an old
gardener, who sometimes drove the chaise,
and waited at table when there was a dinner-
party; and a boy, who looked after the horse,
cleaned knives and boots, took letters to the
post-office, &c.

At the hospitable table of the Framptons'
was now seated Mr. Pine, a dashing young
silversmith from London, and young Peter
Tatman, only son and heir of Squire Tatman,
of the Hall. Young Tatman was proud
of all field sports; a capital shot, a first-
rate cricketer, could run, or leap with any
one in the county; was a merry companion,
and would have been a favoured guest at
most of the houses within ten miles round,
but for his intemperate wine-bibbing. He
never dined anywhere that he did not get
drunk.

It was now ten o'clock, and still young
Tatman sat drinking port wine, and Mr.
Frampton who was scrupulous in his old-
fashioned notions of hospitality, sat stupidly
passing the decanters from himself to the
image of his son (this sportive youth having
fallen back asleep in his chair, where he was
now dreaming of past exploits with his duck-
gun), and thence to the side of the plate of
Mr. Pine who had vanished, not to tea and
coffee with the ladies, but under the table.
From this futile position of the decanter,
young Tatman withdrew it at arm's length—
filled—and passed it again to Mr. Frampton.
It was clear that Mr. Peter Tatman had an
intention of seeing his host under the
mahogany by the side of the dashing young
silversmith, before he took his leave.

But the worthy tea-merchant was a well-
seasoned, steady, port-wine drinker of the old
school, and Mr. Peter Tatman, beginning to
find about eleven o'clock, by certain sensations
in his brain that the tables were likely to be
turned upon himself, made a virtue of that
discovery, and swearing he would not take
any more wine, rose to depart. Before he
went, however, he insisted on helping to
draw Mr. Pine from beneath the table, and
merrily lent his aid in leading him up to bed,
followed by young Frank Frampton, whose
sleep at an early period of the engagement
had saved him from the future effects to which
the dashing young silversmith had fallen a
victim.

The ladies had all retired to bed, Mrs.
Frampton having left strict injunctions to
Margy, the elder housemaid to collect all the
plate, and lock it up in the china closet
adjoining her bed-room, and opening by a second
door into Mr. Frampton's dressing-room.
After this, they were to put all the glass and
china on the side-board, till the morning;
carry down to the cellar all bottles that were
uncorked; lock the cellar, and then go round
the house, rake all fires out, see all fast, and
go to bed.

Margy was a very careful middle-aged
woman, and duly performed the task in all
its branches. She was even more than usually
particular in attaching bells, and fastening
window-shutters and doors. This done, she
sat herself down alone in the dining-room to
rest a minute.

All a-bed and a-sleep, mused the house-
maid. How silent the house was after all the
noise, and eating, and drinking, and rattling
of plates, and laughing, and getting young
men up to bed;—and that Peter Tatman too,
what a noise he made with his laughing and
foolery as he went reeling out at the front
door, and fumbling his way along the dark
gravel walk. Ah—he was not like some
young men she had seen and one young man
in particular—when she was just two-and-
twenty. Here poor Margy raised her apron
to her eyes, and with a deep sigh rose, and
went up stairs to bed.

The beds and their occupants were
distributed at the Framptons', in the following
manner,—which it is important to a right
understanding of what is to happen before
daybreak, to note carefully.

To begin below: the old gardener slept in
a room opening into a passage to the back
area, leading up steps to the garden. The
boy slept on a little horse-bedstead in a small
dark room, close to the lumber-room, near the
back kitchen. There were three rooms on
the drawing-room floor, one of which was
used as a "spare" bed-room; and here Mr.