to the edge of the
cliff itself, the dazzling canopy stretched, making the gulls as they
skimmed its surface in troubled flight appear dingy, and the uneasy
ocean beyond more than ever grey and leaden.

And the snow was falling still, and promised to make a night of it. At
least so thought one of the inmates of the manor-house as he got up from
his music-stool and casually looked out of the fast-darkening window,
thanking his stars that it mattered little to him, in his cosy bachelor-
den, whether it went on a night or a fortnight. This complacent
individual was a man at whom one would be disposed to look twice before
coming to any definite conclusion respecting him. At the first glance
you might put him down for twenty-five; at the second, you would wonder
whether you had possibly made a slight miscalculation of twenty years.
His keen eyes, his smooth face, his athletic figure, his somewhat
dandified dress were all in favour of the young man. The double line
across his brow, the enigmas about his lips, the imperturbable gravity
of his features bespoke the elder. Handsome he was not--he was hardly
good-looking, and the nervous twitch of his eyebrow as it came down over
his single eye-glass constantly disfigured him. What was his temper,
his character, his soul, you might sit for a month before him and never
discover. But from his deep massive chest, his long arms, his lithe
step, and the poise of his head upon his broad shoulders, you would
probably conclude that his enemy, if he had one, would do well not to
frequent the same dark lane as Mr Frank Armstrong.

This afternoon, as he draws his curtain and lights his lamp, he is
passably content with himself and the world; for he has just discovered
a new volume of Schumann that takes his fancy. He has no quarrel,
therefore, with the snow, except that by its sudden arrival it will
probably hold his promising pupil, Master Roger, prisoner for the night
at Castleridge, where he and his mother have driven for dinner. The
tutor has sufficient interest in his work to make him regret this
interruption of his duties, but for the present he will console himself
with Schumann. So he returns to his music-stool--the one spot in
creation where he allows that he can be really happy--and loses himself
in a maze of sweet sound.

So engrossed is he in his congenial occupation, that he is quite unaware
of the door behind him opening and a voice saying--

"Beg pardon, sir, but