master: this was not the time to forego her importance.

The church-bells rang out a clashing peal, the cavalcade clattered into
the village. Everybody was out to cheer, and at sight of baby the
women's voices were as loud as the men's. Old pensioners of the house
were out bareheaded; one, with hair white as snow, was down on his
knees praying a blessing on them.

Lady Bassett began to cry softly; Sir Charles, a little pale, but firm
as a rock; both bowing right and left, like royal personages; and well
they might; every house in the village belonged to them but one.

On approaching that one Mary Gosport turned her head round, and shot a.
glance round out of the tail of her eye. Ay, there was Richard Bassett,
pale and gloomy, half-hid behind a tree at his gate: but Hate's quick
eye discerned him: at the moment of passing she suddenly lifted the
child high, and showed it him, pretending to show it to the crowd: but
her eye told the tale; for, with that act of fierce hatred and cunning
triumph, those black orbs shot a colored gleam like a furious
leopardess's.

A roar of cheers burst from the crowd at that inspired gesture of a
woman, whose face and eyes seemed on fire: Lady Bassett turned pale.

The next moment they passed their own gate, and dashed up to the hall
steps of Huntercombe.

Sir Charles sent Lady Bassett to her room for the night. She walked
through a row of ducking servants, bowing and smiling like a gentle
goddess.

Mary Gosport, afraid to march in a long dress with the child, for fear
of accidents, handed him superbly to Millar and strutted haughtily
after her mistress, nodding patronage. Her follower, the meek Millar,
stopped often to show the heir right and left, with simple geniality
and kindness.

Sir Charles stood on the hall steps, and invited all to come in and
take pot-luck.

Already spits were turning before great fires; a rump of beef, legs of
pork, and pease-puddings boiling in one copper; turkeys and fowls in
another; joints and pies baking in the great brick ovens; barrels of
beer on tap, and magnums of champagne and port marching steadily up
from the cellars, and forming in line and square upon sideboards and
tables.

Supper was laid in the hall, the dining-room, the drawing-room, and the
great kitchen.

Poor villagers trickled in: no man or woman was denied; it was open
house that night, as it had been four hundred years ago.

CHAPTER XXXII.

WHEN Sharpe's clerk retir