like eyes wanting speculation, or with merely the dreary words ‘To be let’ enlivening their blank gloom.  At the house where Charlotte had vanished, he drew his rein, and opened the gate—­not one of the rusty ones—­he entered the garden, where all was trim and fresh, the shadow of the house lying across the sward, and preserving the hoar-frost, which, in the sunshine, was melting into diamond drops on the lingering China roses.

Without ring or knock, he passed into a narrow, carpetless vestibule, unadorned except by a beautiful blue Wedgewood vase, and laying down hat and whip, mounted the bare staircase, long since divested of all paint or polish.  Avoiding the door of the principal room, he opened another at the side, and stood in a flood of sunshine, pouring in from the window, which looked over all the roofs of the town, to the coppices and moorlands of Ormersfield.  On the bright fire sung a kettle, a white cat purred on the hearth, a canary twittered merrily in the window, and the light smiled on a languishing Dresden shepherdess and her lover on the mantelpiece, and danced on the ceiling, reflected from a beautifully chased silver cream-jug—­an inconsistent companion for the homely black teapot and willow-patterned plates, though the two cups of rare Indian porcelain were not unworthy of it.  The furniture was the same mixture of the ordinary and the choice, either worn and shabby, or such as would suit a virtuoso, but the whole arranged with taste and care that made the effect bright, pleasant, and comfortable.  Lord Ormersfield stood on the hearth-rug waiting.  His face was that of one who had learnt to wait, more considerate than acute, and bearing the stamp both of toil and suffering, as if grief had taken away all mobility of expression, and left a stern, thoughtful steadfastness.

Presently a lady entered the room.  Her hair was white as snow, and she could not have seen less than seventy-seven years; but beauty was not gone from her features—­smiles were still on her lips, brightness in her clear hazel eyes, buoyancy in her tread, and alertness and dignity in her tall, slender, unbent figure.  There was nothing so remarkable about her as the elasticity as well as sweetness of her whole look and bearing, as if, while she had something to love, nothing could be capable of crushing her.

‘You here!’ she exclaimed, holding out her hand to her guest.  ’You are come to breakfast.’

’Thank you; I wished to see you without interrupting your day’s work.  Have you many scholars at present?’

’Only seven, and three go into school at Easter.  Jem and Clara, wish me to undertake no more, but I should sorely miss the little fellows.  I wish they may do me as much credit as Sydney Calcott.  He wrote himself to tell me of his success.’

‘I am glad to hear it.  He is a very promising young man.’

’I tell him I shall come to honour, as the old dame who taught him to spell.  My scholars may make a Dr. Busby of me in history.’