were not shaded by those
darksome trees--nor less lively of wit if their school themes were
signed in the name, not of Darrell, but Haughton.

A slight nervous knock at the door. Darrell has summoned Fairthorn;
Fairthorn enters. Darrell takes up a paper; it contains minute
instructions as to the demolition of the two buildings. The materials
of the new pile may be disposed of, sold, carted away--anyhow, anywhere.
Those of the old house are sacred--not a brick to be carried from the
precincts around it. No; from foundation to roof, all to be piously
removed--to receive formal interment deep in the still bosom of the
little lake, and the lake to be filled up and turfed over. The pictures
and antiquities selected for the Darrell Museum are, of course, to be
carefully transported to London--warehoused safely till the gift from
owner to nation be legally ratified. The pictures and articles of less
value will be sent to an auction. But when it came to the old family
portraits in the Manorhouse, the old homely furniture, familiarised
to sight and use and love from infancy, Darrell was at a loss; his
invention failed. That question was reserved for further consideration.

"And why," says Fairthorn, bluntly and coarsely, urging at least
reprieve; "why, if it must be, not wait till you are no more? Why must
the old house be buried before you are?"

"Because," answered Darrell, "such an order, left by will, would seem
a reproach to my heirs; it would wound Lionel to the quick. Done in my
lifetime, and just after I have given my blessing on his marriage, I can
suggest a thousand reasons for an old man's whim; and my manner alone
will dispel all idea of a covert affront to his charming innocent
bride."

"I wish she were hanged, with all my heart," muttered Fairthorn, "coming
here to do such astonishing mischief! But, sir, I can't obey you;
'tis no use talking. You must get some one else. Parson Morley will do
it--with pleasure too, no doubt; or that hobbling old man whom I suspect
to be a conjurer. Who knows but what he may get knocked on the head as
he is looking on with his wicked one eye; and then there will be an end
of him, too, which would be a great satisfaction!"

"Pshaw, my dear Dick; there is no one else I can ask but you. The Parson
would argue; I've had enough of his arguings; and the old man is the
last whom my own arguings could deceive. Fiat justitia."

"Don't, sir, don't; you are breaking my heart--'tis a sham