The present holder of Sandal had none of his mother’s ambitious will.  He cared for neither political nor fashionable life; and as soon as he came to his inheritance, married a handsome, sensible daleswoman with whom he had long been in love.  Then he retired from a world which had nothing to give him comparable, in his eyes, with the simple, dignified pleasures incident to his position as Squire of Sandal-Side.  For dearly he loved the old hall, with its sheltering sycamores and oaks,—­oaks which had been young trees when the knights lying in Furness Abbey led the Grasmere bowmen at Crecy and Agincourt.  Dearly he loved the large, low rooms, full of comfortable elegance; and the sweet, old-fashioned, Dutch garden, so green through all the snows of winter, so cheerfully grave and fragrant in the summer twilights, so shady and cool even in the hottest noons.

Thirty years ago he was coming through it one July evening.  It had been a very hot day; and the flowers were drooping, and the birds weary and silent.  But Squire Sandal, though flushed and rumpled looking, had still the air of drippy mornings and hazy afternoons about him.  There was a creel at his back, and a fishing-rod in his hand, and he had just come from the high, unplanted places, and the broomy, breezy moorlands; and his broad, rosy face expressed nothing but happiness.

At his side walked his favorite daughter Charlotte,—­his dear companion, the confidant and sharer of all his sylvan pleasures.  She was tired and dusty; and her short printed gown showed traces of green, spongy grass, and lichen-covered rocks.  But her face was a joy to see:  she had such bright eyes, such a kind, handsome mouth, such a cheerful voice, such a merry laugh.  As they came in sight of the wide-open front-doors, she looked ruefully down at her feet and her grass-and-water-stained skirt, and then into her father’s face.

“I don’t know what Sophia will say if she sees me, father; I don’t, indeed.”

“Never you mind her, dear.  Sophia’s rather high, you know.  And we’ve had a rare good time.  Eh?  What?”

“I should think we have!  There are not many pleasures in life better than persuading a fine trout to go a little way down stream with you.  Are there, father?”

“You are right, Charlotte.  Trout are the kind of company you want on an outing.  And then, you know, if you can only persuade one to go down stream a bit with you, there’s not much difficulty in persuading him to let you have the pleasure of seeing him to dinner.  Eh?  What?”

“I think I will go round by the side-door, father.  I might meet some one in the hall.”

“Nay, don’t do that.  There isn’t any need to shab off.  You’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m ready to stand by you, my dear; and you know what a good time we’ve been having all day.  Eh?  What?”

“Of course I know, father,—­