do with Mountjoy now. Sit down there and begin. 'Dear
Mr. Annesley--'"

"Oh! It's Mr. Annesley, is it?"

"Yes, it is. Mr. Annesley is the handsome young man. Have you any
objection?"

"Only people do say--"

"What do they say?"

"Of course I don't know; only I have heard--"

"That he is a scoundrel!"

"Scoundrel is very strong," said the old lady, shocked.

"A villain, a liar, a thief, and all the rest of it. That's what you
have heard. And I'll tell you who has been your informant. Either first
or second hand, it has come to you from Mr. Augustus Scarborough. Now
we'll begin again. 'Dear Mr. Annesley--'" The old lady paused a moment,
and then, setting herself firmly to the task, commenced and finished her
letter, as follows:

"Dear Mr. Annesley,--You spent a few days here on one occasion, and I
want to renew the pleasure which your visit gave me. Will you extend
your kindness so far as to come to Tretton for any time you may please
to name beyond two or three days? I am sorry to say that your friend
Augustus Scarborough cannot be here to meet you. My other son, Mountjoy,
may be here. If you wish to escape him, I will endeavor so to fix the
time when I shall have heard from you. But I think there need be no ill
blood there. Neither of you did anything of which you are, probably,
ashamed; though as an old man I am bound to express my disapproval."

("Surely he must be ashamed," said Miss Scarborough.

"Never you mind. Believe me, you know nothing about it." Then he went on
with his letter.)

"But it is not merely for the pleasure of your society that I ask you. I
have a word to say to you which may be important. Yours faithfully,

"JOHN SCARBOROUGH."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

HOW THE LETTERS WERE RECEIVED.

We must now describe the feelings of Mr. Scarborough's correspondents as
they received his letters. When Mr. Grey begun to read that which was
addressed to him he declared that on no consideration would he go down
to Tretton. But when he came to inquire within himself as to his
objection he found that it lay chiefly in his great dislike to Augustus
Scarborough. For poor Mountjoy, as he called him, he entertained a
feeling of deep pity,--and pity we know, is akin to love. And for the
squire, he in his heart felt but little of that profound dislike which
he was aware such conduct as the squire's ought to have generated. "He
is the greatest rascal that I ever knew," he said again and again, both
to