like Dutch Carrillons, when the door at the
top of the flight of steps opened softly, and
an old man with a lamp descended, bowing
low to the ground—an old man with spare
hair and ivory head. He peered at me
curiously with a restless, anxious look, shading
the lamp with his hand, and bowing with a
certain stateliness. He presumed that I was
one of his honour's friends, come down for
the Christmas. They had been expecting
him long, very long, for a year and more.
Perhaps I brought news or letters from him,
or perhaps I myself—could it be? Here the
lamp was lifted up, and my face searched
with wistful inquiry. "True Sherburne
face," he muttered. At the same time the
cloud of old memories which had been
floating round me since I first passed
beneath the porch, began to settle steadily
down in the shape of a certain retainer
who used to take me out far over the fells.
"Will Dipchurch," I said hesitatingly. He
started.

"Will Dipchurch, the steward, surely. Who
knows Will Dipchurch that Will don't
know? Let me look again. Can it be that
young Mr. Nicholas who went abroad
beyond the seas thirty years ago? Can it be?"

"It was," I said, taking his hand in mine,
"poor Nicholas Sherburne, the wanderer,
come home to end his days."

"I knew the Sherburne voice, the
Sherburne face," he said, "so glory to God on
this Christmas Eve for bringing you back
under your own roof. I dreamt of this. I
knew that another Christmas would not go
by without some one of the old name being
at the Grange again. Come in, sir; come in,
for you must be tired after your long, long
journey."

I followed him silently up the steps, and
crossed the threshold into the banqueting-
hall. It was dark, and the lamp gave out a
feeble light. But I could feel the chequered
marble pavement echoing beneath my feet,
and could make out, dimly overhead, the
dark oaken gallery where, in old baronial
times, musicians used to play. I looked for
the famous antlers; spoils of old hunting days,
hung up high round the hall, and found them
in the old spot. I looked for the helmet over
the yawning fireplace where was a heap of
red wood ember flickering. I looked for
the oak panelling, dark and shining with
age, running round: for the oaken tables,
black and shining, too, and felt as if I had
left but yesterday; for nothing had been
disturbed.

"Look up, sir!" said old Will. "See how
we have had the place dressed against
Christmas—all as it used to be," and he held
the lamp up high above his head. It was a
wilderness of holly and ivy, and red berries.
Bunches of it round the oaken bosses of the
ceiling, twining up the mullions of the
windows, hiding every knot and twist. All
those queer stone faces supporting the oaken
arches of the roof, at which, in childish days,
I used to glance timidly and with an awful
respect, now leered comically out of ruffs and
collars of prickly ivy, and the coronas all
down the hall were now turned to the likeness
of great holly bushes hanging from the
ceiling. On sight of which Christmas livery,
came the genial spirit of the season invading
me tumultuously. The bleak white walls
belonging to the Old Rodney Arms,
encompassing me close up to that date, began to
crumble away slowly.

Said Mr. Dipchurch, half to himself, and
letting the light play upon his face with a
rare Dutch effect, "I knew this evening would
not go over without the master's returning
home. I dreamed it three times over the
fire. Our garners have been filled, and the
strong ale brewed, and the keeper has been
over the fells with his gun. And to-morrow
the tenantry shall come up for the feast in
this hall, as they have done this many a-year;
and his honour shall sit in the great chair at
the head, as his father did before him. A
glad day: I may say, sir, I hope,—a jolly
day!"

Mr. Dipchurch passed out with his lamp, I
following, and led the way through the
ante-room—where the guests always gathered
before dinner—into the picture gallery. I
stood at the door looking down; for it was
a long, long room, running full the breadth
of the house: down to the far end, where
were drawn, close with heavy folds, those
crimson curtains beacon that had shone out
so ruddily on the avenue. Lining the sides,
hanging out from the walls, were the tall,
full-length Sherburnes, men and women for
generations back—a roll, chronological of
every age. Often had they been read off to
me by our ancient housekeeper. I could
tell them truly, even now. Beginning with
that frowning warrior just at the door, a
captain and admiral at sea, in flowing wig
and blue armour, who stands leaning on
his truncheon, and pointing back eternally
to a cloud. So, too, with that other worthy
in the starched frill, doublets, and trunks,
who had done good service in the Spanish
wars. Next to whom I knew full well (for
the black shadows hung over that region)
was a peerless lady, one of Kneller's beauties
—a shepherdess, in the open country with a
crook, and sheep at her feet. And so up
that line I could tell them off in their order
from where I sat. That famous Sir Ralph,
in the Ramilies' wig and scarlet coat, pointing
back, like the Admiral, to smoke in the
background: he who had given such good
account of the French in the Flemish
campaigns. With other cavaliers and noble
ladies of Sir Joshua's pencilling: all
behooped, and in rich flowering silks. Half
way down, just at the great fire-place, I found
an old oak table and high-backed chair of
the same spiral pattern drawn in close;
where, too, was a shaded lamp, shedding