r a thud from without,
and the quick footsteps crunching on the snow told him that their
visitor had departed.

CHAPTER II. THE TENANT OF THE NEW HALL.

The snow had ceased to fall, but for a week a hard frost had held the
country side in its iron grip. The roads rang under the horses' hoofs,
and every wayside ditch and runlet was a street of ice. Over the long
undulating landscape the red brick houses peeped out warmly against the
spotless background, and the lines of grey smoke streamed straight up
into the windless air. The sky was of the lightest palest blue, and
the morning sun, shining through the distant fog-wreaths of Birmingham,
struck a subdued glow from the broad-spread snow fields which might have
gladdened the eyes of an artist.

It did gladden the heart of one who viewed it that morning from the
summit of the gently-curving Tamfield Hill Robert McIntyre stood with
his elbows upon a gate-rail, his Tam-o'-Shanter hat over his eyes, and
a short briar-root pipe in his mouth, looking slowly about him, with the
absorbed air of one who breathes his fill of Nature. Beneath him to
the north lay the village of Tamfield, red walls, grey roofs, and a
scattered bristle of dark trees, with his own little Elmdene nestling
back from the broad, white winding Birmingham Road. At the other
side, as he slowly faced round, lay a vast stone building, white and
clear-cut, fresh from the builders' hands. A great tower shot up from
one corner of it, and a hundred windows twinkled ruddily in the light of
the morning sun. A little distance from it stood a second small square
low-lying structure, with a tall chimney rising from the midst of it,
rolling out a long plume of smoke into the frosty air. The whole vast
structure stood within its own grounds, enclosed by a stately park
wall, and surrounded by what would in time be an extensive plantation
of fir-trees. By the lodge gates a vast pile of _debris_, with lines
of sheds for workmen, and huge heaps of planks from scaffoldings, all
proclaimed that the work had only just been brought to an end.

Robert McIntyre looked down with curious eyes at the broad-spread
building. It had long been a mystery and a subject of gossip for the
whole country side. Hardly a year had elapsed since the rumour had first
gone about that a millionaire had bought a tract of land, and that it
was his intention to build a country seat upon it. Since then the work
had been pushed on night and day,