completely, that he begged two ringlets from it for a locket. This so gratified her gracious majesty, that she dubbed her barber with the honour of knighthood, and granted him the privilege of wearing two ringlets rampant upon his shield."

From generation to generation, the Manor House and splendid estate had passed in a direct line to the heir, without quibble or dispute. No mortgage existed to render the possession of the broad lands but a nominal enjoyment of them; no fine old oaks came crashing to the ground to pay "debts of honour," but stood, as they had done for centuries, towering to the clouds, and stretching forth their time-mossed limbs over the earth that nurtured them, like grateful children protecting their mother.

The building stood upon elevated ground, which, gradually sloping, terminated at the edge of a narrow but rapid stream, about three hundred yards from the hall. A thick grove upon the opposite side formed a capacious rookery, where those cunning ornitho

logical priests reared their progenies undisturbed by powder or bow. Two hundred acres

of even turf, dotted with trees of varied foliage, comprised the surrounding park, in which a few aged horses and colts were luxuriating. Upon its borders a dense cover stood, full of thick underbrush. This was the pet one of surly John Bumstead, the gamekeeper, and was held more sacred in his estimation than the village church.

Of

The old house, without being magnificent from ornamental architecture, was remarkable for its venerable and solid appearance. the Gothic order, its thick walls were braced with huge beams, and its two wings were flanked with turrets. In the centre of the building was a large stone porch, over which the arms were rudely carved. A massive oak door, studded with iron nails, swung at the end of it, which led to the entrance hall. This was so capacious, that the squire used to say he had once, in his young wild days, driven his tandem in, and turned it round without touching the walls.

It was about six o'clock, when a window was thrown open, and a head emerged. A smile spread gradually over the features as the pleasant scene was regarded, and a voice exclaimed, as two hands were brought suddenly together with a loud crack:

"Here's a delicious St. Valentine's morning!"

"The squire's up, by Jennies!" said a large fat red-faced boy, immediately under the window, stopping in the act of digging up a flowerroot.

"Jack Tiggle, what are you doing there? At some mischief, I'm sure," said the voice from the window.

"If you please, sir, I-I-I ain't, sir,” replied Jack somewhat confused.

"You young stoat! stop where you are," was the reply.

But the order was unheeded. Away ran the boy as fast as he could go, when the head was withdrawn.

In a few moments the squire issued from the porch, with a long-thonged whip in his hand.

When he perceived the fugitive flying through the shrubbery, he smacked the whip loudly, and with a good-tempered laugh said, "That boy's always at some mischief or other."

The squire's costume was one that may still occasionally be seen worn by "fine old English gentlemen," who, in their way, are great exquisites. His hat, or his "thatch," as he was wont to call it, was rather low in the crown, with a brim of extensive dimensions. A few yards of snowwhite cambric were curled round his neck with scrupulous care. His long waisted coat, with its broad skirt and bright gilt buttons, had as much care bestowed upon its "cut" as any one of Beau Brummel's. A light buff waistcoat, rounded at the hips, descended far upon a pair of spotless buckskin anti-continuations, and a pair of highly-polished topboots completed the attire.

The white hair, which peeped in relief under the broadbrim, indicated that the squire might have seen the summers and winters of more than half a century; but his dark blue, clear

eyes, even white teeth, and unwrinkled countenance, occasioned an observer to question the accuracy of time's index.

A tall, muscular man, having the appearance of prodigious strength, was crossing the park at some distance off, followed by a couple of terriers. He was hailed by the squire, who beckoned him to approach.

"Where are you going, Peter?" said the squire.

"To look at Striver's traps, sir," replied Peter, touching his hat respectfully.

"I know that, sir-it's his work," added Peter, with a self-injured look; "but when, I should like to know, was he diskivered at work! Facts is stubborn things! and as sure as my name is Peter Bumstead, that boy'll be-"

The report of a gun cut short the sentence. The terriers pricked their ears at the sound, and stood with their master looking in the direction whence it came.