as thinking, Tony," said he, gravely,--"I was just thinking whether
I could not summon up a sort of emotion at seeing the woods under whose
shade my ancestors must have walked for heaven knows what centuries."

"Your ancestors! Why, they never lived here."

"Well, if they did n't, they ought. It seems a grand old place, and I
already feel my heart warming to it. By the way, where's Maitland?"

"Gone; I told you he was off to the Continent. What do you know about
this man,--anything?"

"Not much. When I was at school, Tony, whenever in our New Testament
examination they asked me who it was did this or said that, I always
answered John the Baptist, and in eight times out of ten it was a hit;
and so in secular matters, whenever I was puzzled about a fellow's
parentage, I invariably said--and you 'll find as a rule it is
invaluable--he's a son of George IV., or his father was. It accounts
for everything,--good looks, plenty of cash, air, swagger, mystery. It
explains how a fellow knows every one, and is claimed by none."

"And is this Maitland's origin?"

"I can't tell; perhaps it is. Find me a better, or, as the poet says,
'bas accipe mecum.' I say, is that the gate-lodge? Tony, old fellow, I
hope I'll have you spending your Christmas here one of these days, with
Skeff Darner your host!"

"More unlikely things have happened!" said Tony, quietly.

"What a cold northernism is that! Why, man, what so likely--what so
highly probable--what, were I a sanguine fellow, would I say so nearly
certain? It was through a branch of the Darners--no, of the Nevils, I
mean--who intermarried with us, that the Maxwells got the estate. Paul
Nevil was Morton Maxwell's mother--aunt, I should say--"

"Or uncle, perhaps," gravely interposed Tony.

"Yes, uncle,--you 're right! but you 've muddled my genealogy for all
that! Let us see. Who was Noel Skeffington? Noel was a sort of pivot in
our family-engine, and everything seemed to depend on him; and such a
respect had we for his intentions, that we went on contesting the
meaning of his last will till we found out there was nothing more left
to fight for. This Noel was the man that caught King George's horse when
he was run away with at the battle of Dettingen; and the King wanted to
make him a baronet, but with tears in his eyes, he asked how he had ever
incurred the royal displeasure to be visited with such a mark of
disgrace? 'At all events,' said he, 'my innocent child, who is four
y