business now, and, if he liked, Arthur would put some money into the concern and buy the old man out in another year or two.  That was an ugly fault in Arthur’s life, that affair last summer, but the future should make amends.  Many men would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but he would not—­he would resolutely overcome all littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent, and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love, and had real provocation.  No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mind towards any human being:  he was happy, and would make every one else happy that came within his reach.

And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like a quiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight, and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplish blackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey, looking out from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for the heir’s return.  “Poor Grandfather!  And he lies dead there.  He was a young fellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans.  So the world goes round!  Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but she shall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido.”

The wheels of Arthur’s chaise had been anxiously listened for at the Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferred two days.  Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all the servants in the house were assembled to receive him with a grave, decent welcome, befitting a house of death.  A month ago, perhaps, it would have been difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession; but the hearts of the head-servants were heavy that day for another cause than the death of the old squire, and more than one of them was longing to be twenty miles away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrel—­pretty Hetty Sorrel—­whom they used to see every week.  They had the partisanship of household servants who like their places, and were not inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation felt against him by the farming tenants, but rather to make excuses for him; nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of neighbourly intercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not help feeling that the longed-for event of the young squire’s coming into the estate had been robbed of all its pleasantness.

To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave and sad:  he himself was very much touched on seeing them all again, and feeling that he was in a new relation to them.  It was that sort of pathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in it—­which is perhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a good-natured man, conscious of the power to satisfy his good nature.  His heart swelled agreeably as he said, “Well, Mills, how is my aunt?”