through the windows,—­ all the shutters, which had been put up after the departure of the ‘Sisters Gemini,’ were taken down—­blinds were raised and curtains drawn back,—­and as soon as these signs and tokens were manifested, people were not slow in asking Mrs. Spruce whether Miss Vancourt was coming back for Christmas?  But to all enquiries that estimable dame gave the same answer.  She ‘didn’t know nothink.’  The groom Bennett was equally reticent.  He had received ‘no orders.’  Mr. Stanways, the agent, and his wife, both of whom had become very friendly with all the villagers, were cheerfully talkative on every subject but one,—­ that of Miss Vancourt and her movements.  All they could or would say was that her return was ‘quite uncertain.’  Fires were lighted in the Manor—­oh yes!—­to keep the house well aired—­and windows were opened for the same purpose,—­but beyond that—­’really,” said Mr. Stanways, smiling pleasantly—­’I can give no information!’

The days grew shorter, gloomier and colder,—­and soon, when the chill nip of winter began to make itself felt in grim damp earnest, the whole county woke up from the pleasant indolence into which the long bright summer had steeped it, and responded animatedly to the one pulse of vitality which kept it going.  The hunting season began.  Old, otherwise dull men, started up into the semblance of youth again, and sprang to their saddles with almost as much rigour and alertness as boys,—­and Reynard with his cubs ruled potently the hour.  The first ‘meet’ of the year was held at Ittlethwaite Park,—­ and for days before it took place nothing else was talked of.  Hunting was really the one occupation of the gentry of the district,—­everything else distinctly ‘bored’ them.  Many places in England are entirely under the complete dominion of this particular form of sport,—­places, where, if you do not at least talk about hunting and nothing but hunting, you are set down as a fool.  Politics, art, literature,—­these matters brought into conversation merely excite a vacuous stare and yawn,—­and you may consider yourself fortunate if, in alluding to such things at all, you are not considered as partially insane.  To obtain an ordinary reputation for common-sense in an English hunting county, you must talk horse all day and play Bridge all night,—­then and then only will you have earned admission into these ‘exclusive’ circles where the worth of a quadruped exceeds the brain of a man.

The morning of the meet dawned dully—­yet now and then the sun shone fitfully through the clouds, lighting up with a cold sparkle the thick ivy, wet with the last night’s rain, which clung to the walls of Walden’s rectory.  There was a chill wind, and the garden looked bleak and deserted, though it was kept severely tidy, Bainton never failing to see that all fallen leaves were swept up every afternoon and all weeds ‘kep’ under.’  But there was no temptation to saunter down the paths or across the damp lawn in such weather, and Walden,