for his
kinsman's levity.

In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought of returning
home. His first child had been a daughter; Clotilda was in the way of
gratifying his lordship with a second, and the pious youth thought that,
by bringing his wife to his ancestral home, by prayers to St. Philip of
Castlewood, and what not, heaven might be induced to bless him with a
son this time, for whose coming the expectant mamma was very anxious.

The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year at the end of
March; and France was open to us. Just as Frank's poor mother had
made all things ready for Lord Castlewood's reception, and was eagerly
expecting her son, it was by Colonel Esmond's means that the kind lady
was disappointed of her longing, and obliged to defer once more the
darling hope of her heart.

Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen its ancient gray
towers and well-remembered woods for nearly fourteen years, and since he
rode thence with my lord, to whom his mistress with her young children
by her side waved an adieu. What ages seemed to have passed since then,
what years of action and passion, of care, love, hope, disaster! The
children were grown up now, and had stories of their own. As for
Esmond, he felt to be a hundred years old; his dear mistress only seemed
unchanged; she looked and welcomed him quite as of old. There was the
fountain in the court babbling its familiar music, the old hall and its
furniture, the carved chair my late lord used, the very flagon he drank
from. Esmond's mistress knew he would like to sleep in the little room
he used to occupy; 'twas made ready for him, and wall-flowers and sweet
herbs set in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain's room.

In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission to the awful
Dispenser of death and life, of good and evil fortune, Mr. Esmond passed
a part of that first night at Castlewood, lying awake for many hours as
the clock kept tolling (in tones so well remembered), looking back, as
all men will, that revisit their home of childhood, over the great gulf
of time, and surveying himself on the distant bank yonder, a sad little
melancholy boy with his lord still alive--his dear mistress, a girl yet,
her children sporting around her. Years ago, a boy on that very bed,
when she had blessed him and called him her knight, he had made a vow
to be faithful and never desert her dear service. Had he kept that fond
boyish promis