The whole establishment at Benfield Lodge, were drawn up to receive them on the following day in the great hall, and in the centre was fixed the upright and lank figure of its master, with his companion in leanness, honest Peter Johnson, on his right.

“I have made out, Sir Edward and my Lady Moseley, to get as far as my entrance, to receive the favor you are conferring upon me.  It was a rule in my day, and one invariably practised by all the great nobility, such as Lord Gosford—­and—­and—­his sister, the lady Juliana Dayton, always to receive and quit their guests in the country at the great entrance; and in conformity—­ah, Emmy dear,” cried the old gentleman, folding her in his arms as the tears rolled down his cheeks, forgetting his speech in the warmth of his feeling, “You are saved to us again; God be praised—­there, that will do, let me breathe—­let me breathe;” and then by the way of getting rid of his softer feelings, he turned upon John; “so, youngster, you would be playing with edge tools, and put the life of your sister in danger.  No gentleman held a gun in my day; that is, no gentleman about the court.  My Lord Gosford had never killed a bird in his life, or drove his horse; no sir, gentlemen then were not coachmen.  Peter how old was I before I took the reins of the chaise, in driving round the estate—­the time you broke your arm? it was—­”

Peter, who stood a little behind his master, in modest retirement, and who had only thought his elegant form brought thither to embellish the show, when called upon, advanced a step, made a low bow, and answered in his sharp key: 

“In the year 1798, your honor, and the 38th of his present majesty, and the 64th year of your life, sir, June the 12th, about meridian.”

Peter dropped back as he finished; but recollecting himself, regained his place with a bow, as he added, “new style.”

“How are you, old style?” cried John, with a slap on the back, that made the steward jump again.

“Mr. John Moseley—­young gentleman”—­a term Peter had left off using to the baronet within the last ten years, “did you think—­to bring home—­the goggles?”

“Oh yes,” said John, gravely, producing them from his pocket.  Most of the party having entered the parlor, he put them carefully on the bald head of the steward—­“There, Mr Peter Johnson, you have your property again, safe and sound.”

“And Mr. Denbigh said he felt much indebted to your consideration in sending them,” said Emily, soothingly, as she took them off with her beautiful hands.

“Ah, Miss Emmy,” said the steward, with one of his best bows, “that was—­a noble act; God bless him!” then holding up his finger significantly, “the fourteenth codicil—­to master’s will,” and Peter laid his finger alongside his nose, as he nodded his head in silence.

“I hope the thirteenth contains the name of honest Peter Johnson,” said the young lady, who felt herself uncommonly well pleased with the steward’s conversation.