The road seemed very long, as an unknown road travelled in darkness and in haste generally does.  The wind howled, and rattled the carriage windows, the rain still dashed against the glass with every gust, and at times the horses seemed scarcely able to keep on through the storm.  At last, however, they came to a stop, and Maurice, looking out, found himself close to a lodge, from the window of which a bright gleam of light shone out across the rainy darkness.  In a minute a second light came from the opening door, the great gates rolled back, and the carriage passed on into the grounds.  There were large trees on both sides of the drive, just faintly visible as they swayed backwards and forwards, and then came an open space and the house itself.  There was a cheerful brightness there, showing a wide old-fashioned porch, and, within, a large hall where a lamp was burning.  Maurice hurried in to the porch, and had waited but a minute when a servant in a plain, sober-coloured livery came leisurely across the hall and opened the glass door, through which the visitor had been trying to get his first idea of the place and its inhabitants.

“Was Mr. Wynter in?”

“No.”

“Was he expected?”

“Not to-night, certainly—­perhaps not to-morrow.”

“Mrs. Wynter?” That was a guess.  Maurice had never troubled himself till then to think whether there was a Mrs. Wynter.

“She was at home, but engaged.”

Maurice hesitated a moment.  “I must see her,” he thought to himself, and took heart again.

“I have made a long journey,” he said, “to see Mr. Wynter; will you give my card to your mistress, and beg of her to see me for a moment?”

The man took the card and led the visitor into a small room at one side of the hall, where books and work were lying about as if it had been occupied earlier in the day, but which was empty now.  Then he shut the door and carried the card into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Wynter had friends staying with her.  There was a widow and her son and daughter, and one or two young people besides, as well as all the younger members of the Wynter family.  The two elder ladies were having a little comfortable chat over their work, and the others were gathered round the piano, when Maurice’s arrival was heard.

“Who can it be?” Mrs. Wynter said doubtfully.  “It is not possible Mr. Wynter can be back to-night.”

The eldest daughter came to the back of her mother’s chair.

“Listen, mamma,” she said; “or shall I look if it is papa?”

“No indeed, my dear.  It can’t be.  Walter!” for one of the boys was cautiously unlatching the door, “come away, I beg.”

Meanwhile all listened, so very extraordinary did it seem that anybody should come unannounced, so late, and on such a night.

Presently the door opened, and everybody’s eyes, as well as ears, were in requisition, though there was only a card to exercise them on.