The family were collected in one of the parlors on an extremely unpleasant day, the fourth after the departure of John, when the thin person of Johnson stalked in amongst them.  All eyes were fixed on him in expectation of what he had to communicate, and all apparently dreading to break the silence, from an apprehension that his communication would be unpleasant.  In the meantime Peter, who had respectfully left his hat at the door, proceeded to uncase his body from the multiplied defences he had taken against the inclemency of the weather.  His master stood erect, with an outstretched hand, ready to receive the reply to his epistle; and Johnson having liberated his body from thraldom, produced the black leathern pocket-book, and from its contents a letter, when he read aloud—­Roderic Benfield, Esq., Benfield Lodge, Norfolk; favored by Mr.—­here Peter’s modesty got the better of his method; he had never been called Mr. Johnson by anybody, old or young; all knew him in that neighborhood as Peter Johnson—­and he had very nearly been guilty of the temerity of arrogating to himself another title in the presence of those he most respected:  a degree of self-elevation from which he escaped with the loss of a small piece of his tongue.  Mr. Benfield took the letter with an eagerness that plainly indicated the deep interest he took in its contents, while Emily, with a tremulous voice and flushed cheek, approached the steward with a glass of wine.

“Peter,” she said, “take this; it will do you good.”

“Thank you, Miss Emma,” said Peter, casting his eyes from her to his master, as the latter, having finished his letter, exclaimed, with a strange mixture of consideration and disappointment—­

“Johnson, you must change your clothes immediately, or you will take cold:  you look now like old Moses, the Jew beggar.”

Peter sighed heavily at this comparison, and saw in it a confirmation of his fears; for he well knew, that to his being the bearer of unpleasant tidings was he indebted for a resemblance to anything unpleasant to his master, and Moses was the old gentleman’s aversion.

The baronet now followed his uncle from the room to his library, entering it at the same moment with the steward, who had been summoned by his master to an audience.

Pointing to a chair for his nephew, Mr. Benfield commenced the discourse with saying,

“Peter, you saw Mr. Denbigh; how did he look?”

“As usual, master,” said Peter, laconically, still piqued at being likened to old Moses.

“And what did he say to the offer? did he not make any comments on it?  He was not offended at it, I hope,” demanded Mr. Benfield.

“He said nothing but what he has written to your honor,” replied the steward, losing a little of his constrained manner in real good feeling to his master.

“May I ask what the offer was?” inquired Sir Edward.

Mr. Benfield regarding him a moment in silence, said, “Certainly, you are nearly concerned in his welfare; your daughter”—­the old man stopped, turned to his letter-book, and handed the baronet a copy of the epistle he had sent to Denbigh.  It read as follows: