fore I took the reins of the chaise, in driving round the estate--the
time you broke your arm? it was--"

Peter, who stood a little behind his master, in modest retirement, and who
had only thought his elegant form brought thither to embellish the show,
when called upon, advanced a step, made a low bow, and answered in his
sharp key:

"In the year 1798, your honor, and the 38th of his present majesty, and
the 64th year of your life, sir, June the 12th, about meridian."

Peter dropped back as he finished; but recollecting himself, regained his
place with a bow, as he added, "new style."

"How are you, old style?" cried John, with a slap on the back, that made
the steward jump again.

"Mr. John Moseley--young gentleman"--a term Peter had left off using to
the baronet within the last ten years, "did you think--to bring home--the
goggles?"

"Oh yes," said John, gravely, producing them from his pocket. Most of the
party having entered the parlor, he put them carefully on the bald head of
the steward--"There, Mr Peter Johnson, you have your property again, safe
and sound."

"And Mr. Denbigh said he felt much indebted to your consideration in
sending them," said Emily, soothingly, as she took them off with her
beautiful hands.

"Ah, Miss Emmy," said the steward, with one of his best bows, "that was--a
noble act; God bless him!" then holding up his finger significantly, "the
fourteenth codicil--to master's will," and Peter laid his finger alongside
his nose, as he nodded his head in silence.

"I hope the thirteenth contains the name of honest Peter Johnson," said
the young lady, who felt herself uncommonly well pleased with the
steward's conversation.

"As witness, Miss Emmy--witness to all--but God forbid," said the steward
with solemnity, "I should ever live to see the proving of them: no, Miss
Emmy, master has done for me what he intended, while I had youth to enjoy
it. I am rich, Miss Emmy--good three hundred a year." Emily, who had
seldom heard so long a speech as the old man's gratitude drew from him,
expressed her pleasure at hearing it, and shaking him kindly by the hand,
left him for the parlor.

"Niece," said Mr. Benfield, having scanned the party closely with his
eyes, "where is Colonel Denbigh?"

"Colonel Egerton, you mean, sir," interrupted Lady Moseley.

"No, my Lady Moseley," replied her uncle, with great formality, "I mean
Colonel Denbigh. I take it he is a colonel by this time," looking
express