long since disappeared from the Hall, yet their fateful
cry, which had sounded through the night of the strange death of his
ancestor who first brought them there, had been wonderfully allied with
the fortunes of his house.

He accepted the omen.

Rising up with the first gleam of dawn, he went out into the park.

He determined to appraise and make an inventory of all that remained on
the place that he could call his own still and sell. There was some
timber left. Then all the stock on the home farm would be disposed of.
As he endeavoured to 'tot' this up he noticed a figure swinging along
across the park at a great pace. Was a stranger already fearless about
trespass?

Turning away from the approaching intruder, he commenced his calculation
afresh. Suddenly a voice hailed him joyfully.

'Back again! Back again, Pater, at long last! Yes, the rolling stone has
gathered some moss after all--honourably, if luckily, come by. So here I
am, Pater, like the Prodigal--to crave forgiveness, and--to repay you my
debts.'

Heronsbeck turned and stared upon the speaker. 'Joe!' he cried faintly,
but with Joe, his only son, he had quarrelled. Joe had vanished on the
Klondyke in a blizzard. This must be his ghost.

'Come, Dad!' called the beloved figure in front of him beseechingly.

'My boy, my boy!' cried his father, pressing his son to his bosom.
'Thank God for ye, my boy, my boy! But how can it be that you're alive?'
he asked apprehensively, as though fearing his son might vanish again
from his eyes.

'A good Samaritan--this time disguised as a Jesuit Father, rescued me.
Then I saved a pal myself eventually, who died of fever and left me all
his pile.'

'Yet I heard the peacock cry this morning,' muttered Heronsbeck to
himself, still apprehensive of misfortune.

'And did you also, Pater, hear the peacock shouting?' asked his son in
astonishment.

'Why, as I came over the fell by the Hanging Stone at break o' day--just
above the young larch plantation where we had the record woodcock
shoot--I heard his rasping cry.

"Hallo!" I called back to him. "Hallo, old bugler! You've got it all
wrong this time. 'Tis not 'The Last Post,' but 'Reveille' that you must
sound over Heronsbeck Hall this day."'

KITTY'S BOWER

When Eric Chesters of Chesters Castle married Miss Brocklebridge--the
bold and handsome heiress of Sir William, ironmaster, baronet, and
expectant baron, all the world and his wife clapped hands and c