le
who prefer the fiddle."

"Then they never heard your flute, Mr. Fairthorn." The musician again
emitted his discordant chuckle, and, nodding his head nervously and
cordially, shambled away without lighting a candle, and was engulfed in
the shadows of some mysterious corner.

CHAPTER IV.

The old world and the new.

It was long before Lionel could sleep. What with the strange house
and the strange master, what with the magic flute and the musician's
admonitory caution, what with tender and regretful reminiscences of
Sophy, his brain had enough to work on. When he slept at last, his
slumber was deep and heavy, and he did not wake till gently shaken by
the well-bred arm of Mr. Mills. "I humbly beg pardon: nine o'clock, sir,
and the breakfast-bell going to ring." Lionel's toilet was soon hurried
over; Mr. Darrell and Fairthorn were talking together as he entered the
breakfast-room,--the same room as that in which they had dined.

"Good morning, Lionel," said the host. "No leave-taking to-day, as you
threatened. I find you have made an appointment with Mr. Fairthorn,
and I shall place you under his care. You may like to look over the
old house, and make yourself"--Darrell paused "at home," jerked out Mr.
Fairthorn, filling up the hiatus. Darrell turned his eye towards the
speaker, who evidently became much frightened, and, after looking in
vain for a corner, sidled away to the window and poked himself behind
the curtain. "Mr. Fairthorn, in the capacity of my secretary, has
learned to find me thoughts, and put them in his own words," said
Darrell, with a coldness almost icy. He then seated himself at the
breakfast-table; Lionel followed his example, and Mr. Fairthorn,
courageously emerging, also took a chair and a roll. "You are a true
diviner, Mr. Darrell," said Lionel; "it is a glorious day."

"But there will be showers later. The fish are at play on the surface of
the lake," Darrell added, with a softened glance towards Fairthorn, who
was looking the picture of misery. "After twelve, it will be just the
weather for trout to rise; and if you fish, Mr. Fairthorn will lend you
a rod. He is a worthy successor of Izaak Walton, and loves a companion
as Izaak did, but more rarely gets one."

"Are there trout in your lake, sir?"

"The lake! You must not dream of invading that sacred water. The
inhabitants of rivulets and brooks not within my boundary are beyond the
pale of Fawley civilization, to be snared and