tanding ready for the ale to be drawn to flank the pinky
ham, yellow butter, and well-browned young fowl.

"No, wife, no! Can't see any sign of him yet," said the squire. "Dick,
get me my pipe. I'll have just one while we're waiting. Hope he has
not taken the wrong road!"

"Do you think he has?" said Mrs Winthorpe anxiously. "It would be very
dangerous for him now it is growing dark."

"No, no; nonsense!" said the squire, filling his pipe from the stone
tobacco-jar Dick had taken from the high chimney-piece of the cosy, low,
oak-panelled room.

It was a curious receptacle, having been originally a corbel from the
bottom of a groin of the old building, and represented an evil-looking
grotesque head. This the squire had had hollowed out and fitted with a
leaden lid.

"Think we ought to go and meet him, father?" said Dick, after watching
the supper-table with the longing eyes of a young boy, and then taking
them away to stare at his mother's glistening needle and the soft grey
clouds from his father's pipe.

"No, Dick, we don't know which way to go. If we knew we would. Perhaps
he will not come at all, and I'm too tired to go far to-night."

Dick bent down and stroked Tibb, the great black cat, which began to
purr.

"Put on a few more turves, Dick, and a bit or two of wood," said his
mother. "Mr Marston may be cold."

Dick laid a few pieces of the resinous pine-root from the fen upon the
fire, and built up round it several black squares of well-dried peat
where the rest glowed and fell away in a delicate creamy ash. Then the
fir-wood began to blaze, and he returned to his seat.

"'Tatoes is done!" said a voice at the door, and the red-armed maid
stood waiting for orders to bring them in.

"Put them in a dish, Sarah, and keep them in the oven with the door
open. When Mr Marston comes you can put them in the best wooden bowl,
and cover them with a clean napkin before you bring them in," said Mrs
Winthorpe.

"Oh, I say, mother, I am so hungry! Mayn't I have one baked potato?"

"Surely you can wait, my boy, till our visitor comes," said Mrs
Winthorpe quietly.

Dick stared across at the maid as she was closing the door, and a look
of intelligence passed between them, one which asked a question and
answered it; and Dick knew that if he went into the great kitchen there
would be a mealy potato ready for him by the big open fireplace, with
butter _ad libitum_, and pepper and salt.

Dick sat stroking