be unnecessary to specify its many
beauties; indeed, at this date, some of the tribe had recently employed
their gift of language on these attractions with copious fulness and
accuracy of detail, since Outram Hall, for the first time during six
centuries, was, or had been, for sale.

Suffice it to say that, like the oaks of its avenue, Outram was such
a house as can only be found in England; no mere mass of bricks
and mortar, but a thing that seemed to have acquired a life and
individuality of its own. Or, if this saying be too far-fetched and
poetical, at the least this venerable home bore some stamp and trace
of the lives and individualities of many generations of mankind, linked
together in thought and feeling by the common bond of blood.

The young man who stood in the roadway looked long and earnestly towards
the mass of buildings that frowned upon him from the crest of the hill,
and as he looked an expression came into his face which fell little, if
at all, short of that of agony, the agony which the young can feel at
the shock of an utter and irredeemable loss. The face that wore such
evidence of trouble was a handsome one enough, though just now all the
charm of youth seemed to have faded from it. It was dark and strong, nor
was it difficult to guess that in after-life it might become stern. The
form also was shapely and athletic, though not very tall, giving promise
of more than common strength, and the bearing that of a gentleman who
had not brought himself up to the belief that ancient blood can cover
modern deficiencies of mind and manner. Such was the outward appearance
of Leonard Outram as he was then, in his twenty-third year.

While Leonard watched and hesitated on the roadway, unable, apparently,
to make up his mind to pass those iron gates, and yet desirous of doing
so, carts and carriages began to appear hurrying down the avenue towards
him.

"I suppose that the sale is over," he muttered to himself. "Well, like
death, it is a good thing to have done with."

Then he turned to go; but hearing the crunch of wheels close at hand,
stepped back into the shadow of the gateway pillar, fearing lest he
should be recognised on the open road. A carriage came up, and, just as
it reached the gates, something being amiss with the harness, a footman
descended from the box to set it right. From where he stood Leonard
could see its occupants, the wife and daughter of a neighbouring squire,
and overhear their