-house. London mechanics had been repairing and
furnishing the old-fashioned pile, striving withal to retain the flavor
of antiquity which hung about its towers. There had been employment,
too, for the artisans of the neighborhood, and even to-day, when the
guests were to arrive before sunset, a bevy of the people were running
hither and thither at the bidding of an old man with white hair and bent
figure. He was evidently merely an upper servant, but the expression of
his face betokened one whose joy and sorrow are an echo of his master's
fortune.

A few hours later a carriage drew up before the threshold. A young man
leaped to the ground and grasped with both of his the hand of the aged
servitor.

"How are you, Reynolds?"

"God bless you, Mr. Ripon; God bless you."

"And here is my wife, Reynolds. You remember her."

The old man doffed his hat with a respectful formality. It was still a
little against his grain to see an American his master's bride. "Welcome
to Ripon House."

Maggie shook him by the hand, and her father's bantering voice now
startled his dignified mood.

"So this is where you have been hiding all these years, Reynolds? You
look like the wandering Arab, with your gray beard!"

Mr. Windsor doubtless referred to the Wandering Jew, but he was no
scholar, as he would himself have been the first to acknowledge. All
laughed at the mistake, and none louder than the fourth member of the
party, a tall, middle-aged man, with a noble but genial countenance.

It was Richard Lincoln, to whom time had been generous during the six
years which had flown since he was last at Ripon House. Despite the
cares which had weighed upon his spirit, his brow was scarcely furrowed.
He had come to be Geoffrey's guest for a few days and enjoy the
tranquillity of the country. There were business matters also to be
talked over with his friend, for Geoffrey had promised to take an active
part in the public service of the country.

The friends sat long that evening around the dinner-table. There was
much pleasant talk, but every face wore a thoughtful look. The
intervening time since last they had gathered here was too full of
incident to be passed over lightly. Recollection stood beside the
hearth, and yet with a finger on the lips, as though loath to jar the
atmosphere of revery with a word. And yet there were references made to
the past. Lincoln asked what had become of that strange man Jawkins. But
no one knew further