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“`By your leave, Master Hal,’ said he, saluting, `I thought you might like to know there is bad news from Culverton.’

“`How?’ I demanded, scarcely taking in what he said.

“`Bad news, begging your honour’s pardon. I had it in a letter from Phoebe, the dairymaid at the Vicarage, who your honour may know is my sweetheart, or rather I am hers; and by your–‘

“`Sirrah, man, drop your sweetheart and come to your news! What is it?’

“`It is news of the squire, Master Hal!’ said the man, seriously.

“`My father!’ I exclaimed, suddenly sobered by the name.

“`He is ill, please your honour. He had a stroke a week ago, and Phoebe says his life is despaired of.’

“`Ill a week, and I never heard!’ I exclaimed. `Why did no one tell me?’

“`Your honour may remember you have not examined your letters for these three days past.’

“It was true. In the whirl of excitement, with late nights and later mornings, and never-ending frivolity, my very letters had lain on my mantelshelf unopened!

“My man turned to take my horse away to the stable. His action recalled me suddenly to myself.

“`Hold!’ I said; `leave the horse here, Tucker, and help me into the saddle again.’

“Tucker gazed at me in astonishment, but did as he was bid.

“`I am going to Culverton,’ I said, shortly, taking up the reins.

“`To Culverton! At this hour, and in this weather!’ said Tucker, in tones of alarm. `Stay at any rate till you have had a night’s rest, for you need it, master, and till I can put up what you need for the journey.’

“`Let go my horse, man!’ I cried, excitedly, setting spurs to the animal and abruptly ending the honest fellow’s remonstrance.

“The thought of my father lying ill, dying perhaps, and me here revelling in Ogilby, made it impossible for me to contemplate a moment’s delay, even so much as to change my gay attire or provide myself with necessaries for the journey. Culverton was thirty miles distant. I had a good horse, and with all my dissipation I was capable of a fair share of endurance. I therefore yielded to my impulse, and halting only to leave word with a comrade whom I met to explain my absence to the colonel, I dashed off into the night on my way to Culverton.

“What were my thoughts during those first few hours I need hardly tell you. I hope and trust none of you will ever be tortured by the self- reproach of which I was then the victim.

“For some distance out of Ogilby the roads were pretty good, and I made tolerable progress; so that when morning broke about seven I was at least a dozen miles on my journey. I could scarcely brook the delay of a few minutes at the first village to rest my horse and swallow a hurried breakfast; but I knew that for the rest of the way accommodation, either for man or beast, was very limited, and, therefore, prudence made the unwelcome delay a necessity.

“Once more in the saddle I hoped to make up for lost time; but in this I was fated to be disappointed. For scarcely had I got beyond the village when the weather suddenly changed. The chill morning air freshened to a wind which brought snow with it, light at first, but increasing in heaviness as the day went on. The road rapidly became covered, and my horse, unable on the treacherous foothold to maintain the canter of the morning, was compelled to slacken into a trot.

“I was in no gear for weather like this, as you may suppose. I still wore the light festive attire of the previous night, covered only with my military cape, which I now drew more closely around me at every step. How I wished I had taken Tucker’s prudent advice! But it was too late to help it now.