st as a family heirloom.

It will occupy a chapter to itself in my forthcoming work on "Historic
Stones," where full details of its weight, size, colour, and value may
be found. At present I am going to relate an incident in its history
which, for obvious reasons, will not be published--which, in fact, I
trust the reader will consider related in strict confidence.

I had never seen the stone itself when I began to write about it, and it
was not till one evening last spring, while staying with my nephew, Sir
Thomas Acton, that I came within measurable distance of it. A dinner
party was impending, and, at my instigation, the Bishop of Northchurch
and Miss Panton, his daughter and heiress, were among the invited
guests.

The dinner was a particularly good one, I remember that distinctly. In
fact, I felt myself partly responsible for it, having engaged the new
cook--a talented young Italian, pupil of the admirable old _chef_ at my
club. We had gone over the _menu_ carefully together, with a result
refreshing in its novelty, but not so daring as to disturb the minds of
the innocent country guests who were bidden thereto.

The first spoonful of soup was reassuring, and I looked to the end of
the table to exchange a congratulatory glance with Leta. What was amiss?
No response. Her pretty face was flushed, her smile constrained, she was
talking with quite unnecessary _empressement_ to her neighbour, Sir
Harry Landor, though Leta is one of those few women who understand the
importance of letting a man settle down tranquilly and with an
undisturbed mind to the business of dining, allowing no topic of serious
interest to come on before the _releves_, and reserving mere
conversational brilliancy for the _entremets_.

Guests all right? No disappointments? I had gone through the list with
her, selecting just the right people to be asked to meet the Landors,
our new neighbours. Not a mere cumbrous county gathering, nor yet a
showy imported party from town, but a skillful blending of both. Had
anything happened already? I had been late for dinner and missed the
arrivals in the drawing-room. It was Leta's fault. She has got into a
way of coming into my room and putting the last touches to my toilet. I
let her, for I am doubtful of myself nowadays after many years'
dependence on the best of valets. Her taste is generally beyond dispute,
but to-day she had indulged in a feminine vagary that provoked me and
made me late for dinner.