listened and commented; while one or two of the squires, and a shabby, disreputable-looking minor canon made each notable name the occasion of a toast, whether of health to his majesty’s friends or confusion to his foes.  A squabble, as to whether the gallant Berwick should be reckoned as an honest Frenchman or as a traitor Englishman, was interrupted by the Major’s entrance, and the congratulations on his recovery.

One of the squires inquired after his daughters, and pronounced the little one with the outlandish name was becoming a belle, and would be the toast of the neighbourhood, a hint of which the topers were not slow to take advantage, while one of the guests at the recent party observed, “Young Belamour seemed to be of that opinion.”

“May it be so,” said the Canon, “that were a step to the undoing of a great wrong.”

“Mr. Scrivener will tell you, sir, that there was no justice in the eye of the law,” said the Major.

“Summum jus, summa injuria,” quoted, sotto voce, Mr. Arden, a minor canon who, being well born, scholarly, scientific and gentlemanly, occupied a middle place between his colleagues and the grandees.  He was not listened to.  Each knot of speakers was becoming louder in debate, and Dr. Boltby’s voice was hardly heard when he announced that a rain of blood had fallen on the Macgillicuddy mountains in Ireland, testified to by numerous respectable Protestant witnesses, and attributable, either to the late comet, or to the Pretender.

At that moment the letters were brought in by the postman, and each recipient had—­not without murmurs—­to produce his purse and pay heavily for them.  There were not many.  The Doctor had two, Mr. Arden one, Mr. Scrivener no less than five, but of them two were franked, and a franked letter was likewise handed over to Major DeLavie, with the word “Aresfield” written in the corner.

“From my Lady,” said an unoccupied neighbour.

“Aye, aye,” said the Major, putting it into his pocket, being by no means inclined to submit the letter to the general gaze.

“A good omen,” said Canon Boltby, looking up from his paper.  And the Major smiled in return, put a word or two into the discussion on affairs, and then, as soon as he thought he could take leave without betraying anxiety, he limped down stairs, and called for his horse.  Lady Belamour’s letters were wont to be calls for money, not easily answered, and were never welcome sights, and this hung heavy in the laced pocket of his coat.

Palmer met him at the back gate, and took his horse, but judged it advisable to put no questions about the news, while his master made his way in by the kitchen entrance of the rambling old manor house, and entered a stone-paved low room, a sort of office or study, where he received, and paid, money for my Lady, and smoked his pipe.  Here he sat down in his wooden armchair, spread forth his legs, and took out the letter, opening it with careful avoidance of defacing the large red seal, covered with many quarterings, and the Delavie escutcheon of pretence reigning over all.