Hannah Yates was more than once nearly run over and driven back to the
banks of the highway by those flying vehicles, where she stood
half-terrified, half-curious, looking after them in wistful
astonishment.

What could this tumultuous movement mean? Was it a wedding--but of whom?
A funeral--the old countess?

No, no! Destiny could not be so cruel. Besides, there was no such eager
driving or smiling faces when the head of that castle was taken from its
broad portals to the family vault. It must be some festival, and she was
yet in time.

At an abrupt curve of the road the old woman came suddenly upon a full
view of the castle. It was all ablaze with lights, and rose up from the
embosoming trees like some enchanted palace upon which a tempest of
stars had rained down in all their heavenly brightness. The broad
facade which connected the tower was flooded with noonday light, and she
could discover groups of people moving to and fro on the stone terrace
in front, rendered so small by the distance that they seemed unreal and
fairy-like. Down to the verge of the park and upward, curving through
the woods, she could trace the chestnut avenue by wreaths of colored
lanterns that blazed from tree to tree like mammoth jewels chaining them
together. Now and then a carriage broke to view, sweeping along the
macadamized avenue, clearly revealed by the light that fell around it.

Never in her life had the old woman seen such splendid commotion about
that stately building, yet she could remember many a festive scene in
its old walls, when crowned princes had been entertained there with a
degree of splendor scarcely exceeded in their own palaces.

As the old woman stood gazing upon this scene, a countryman, passing
along the highway, paused near her to get a sight of the castle.

"What is going on up yonder?" inquired the woman, drawing toward him and
speaking in his own broad dialect.

"What is't at yon castle? An' who mon you be that donna know that the
oud lady up at Houghton is giving a grand blow-out to her gran'child,
Lord Hope's daughter, an' to Lady Hope, as people thought she would
never abide in her sight?"

"And is Lord and Lady Hope at the castle?"

"Aye, an' the young lady, too--her that the oud countess is o'er fond
of; but the young 'un is a right comely lass, an' the oud 'un might go
furder and fare worse."

Mrs. Yates gathered the woolen shawl she had travelled in about her, and
went hastily down the bank