for the disorder that has fastened on him.  It is no hurried disorder; he may live for years yet; but the end, when it does come, will be tolerably sudden:  and that he knows.  It is water on the chest.  He is a little man with light eyes; very much like what his father was before him:  but not in the least like his late brother Sir Lionel, who was a very fine and handsome man.  He has a mild, pleasing countenance:  but there arises a slight scowl to his brow as he turns hastily round at a noisy interruption.

Some one had burst into the room—­forgetting, probably, that it was the quiet room of an invalid.  A tall, dark young man, with broad shoulders and a somewhat peculiar stoop in them.  His hair was black, his complexion sallow; but his features were good.  He might have been called a handsome man, but for a strange, ugly mark upon his cheek.  A very strange-looking mark indeed, quite as large as a pigeon’s egg, with what looked like radii shooting from it on all sides.  Some of the villagers, talking familiarly among themselves, would call it a hedgehog, some would call it a “porkypine”; but it resembled a star as much as anything.  That is, if you can imagine a black star.  The mark was black as jet; and his pale cheek, and the fact of his possessing no whiskers, made it all the more conspicuous.  He was born with the mark; and his mother used to say—­But that is of no consequence to us.  It was Frederick Massingbird, the present Mrs. Verner’s younger son.

“Roy has come up, sir,” said he, addressing Mr. Verner.  “He says the Dawsons have turned obstinate and won’t go out.  They have barricaded the door, and protest that they’ll stay, in spite of him.  He wishes to know if he shall use force.”

“No,” said Mr. Verner.  “I don’t like harsh measures, and I will not have such attempted.  Roy knows that.”

“Well, sir, he waits your orders.  He says there’s half the village collected round Dawson’s door.  The place is in a regular commotion.”

Mr. Verner looked vexed.  Of late years he had declined active management on his estate; and, since he grew ill, he particularly disliked being disturbed with details.

“Where’s Lionel?” he asked in a peevish tone.

“I saw Lionel ride out an hour ago.  I don’t know where he is gone.”

“Tell Roy to let the affair rest until to-morrow, when Lionel will see about it.  And, Frederick, I wish you would remember that a little noise shakes me:  try to come in more quietly.  You burst in as if my nerves were as strong as your own.”

Mr. Verner turned to his fire again with an air of relief, glad to have got rid of the trouble in some way, and Frederick Massingbird proceeded to what was called the steward’s room, where Roy waited.  This Roy, a hard-looking man with a face very much seamed with the smallpox, was working bailiff to Mr. Verner.  Until within a few years he had been but a labourer on the estate.  He was not liked among the poor tenants, and was generally honoured with the appellation “Old Grips,” or “Grip Roy.”