Page Illustrations to "MR. WYNTARD'S WARD." 1, Illustrations to the articles entitled "SEEING IS York Wharf, Lambeth. A lambeth Interior 5 29 The Castle of Amboise 393 The Burial of Knox. Historical drawing by An Apartment in Ratcliffe 133 Feeding Robin 40 John Gilbert 409 Bird Exchange, Bethnal Green serious, touched them scarcely at all. Some experience was as cheerful a house as heart could desire to spend and a vast deal of imagination had exalted grandpapa's a Christmas season in. house into a place of paradisaical delights, in contrast with which home appeared a dreary desolate waste, where dulness brooded in season and out of season. "Let us go! do let us go!" was their cry, morning, noon, and night; and they heard nothing pathetic in nurse's ironical rejoinder, "Ay, go, go; leave us. Leave father and mother to keep Christmas alone. Go your ways, an' be happy. You're like young bearsyou've got all your troubles before you.” On the day of their departure Eastwold was awake and up early, and the noise of children's feet and voices, to and fro the house in ecstasy, never ceased until they were warmly packed into the old yellow chariot, and ready for a start. Papa and mamma waited on the steps to see them off, and as the lank posters trotted down the avenue, the sun shone upon a bunch of rosy faces pressed to the window, nodding and shouting joyous good-byes until they were out of sight. No sense of uneasiness smote any of them, even at that last moment, except Penelope, who had chosen to ensconce herself all alone in the rumble. She was a queer little sensitive creature, pathetically ugly, and older by a year or two than any of her guardian's family. Her short nose reddened, and a few tears winked furtively in her large brown eyes; but before they had gone a mile on the road, the impression of pain she had caught from those figures, standing on the threshold forsaken, yielded to the consolation of leafless branches, clear traced against the pale blue sky, and to the tenderness of frostwork on reed and fern under the glittering hedges. It recurred now and then throughout the journey, like the sad refrain of an old ballad, but the story-part between the echoes was romantic and fanciful, and that mysterious undertone haunted her to no ill-purpose. Over hill and dale, over moor and windy scaur for two and twenty miles rattled the happy children, laughing, chattering, quarrelling like a nest of pies; and when the sun began to sink behind the sombre Brackenwood, they caught a glimpse of grandpapa's chimneys amongst the cedars. Ten minutes after they were all being kissed and cuddled and danced up and down in the great hall, with no flaw in their welcome, save a low-spoken regret from grandmamma that they had not brought her Mary" with them and 'poor papa." They talked about that visit to Brackenfield for long and long after-it was a bit of such genuine good cheer. A sketch that Francis made from the garden went with them in all their subsequent wanderings. It was the merest scratch, but they knew it. Some of the windows were indicated only by a single stroke, others were omitted altogether, none made any effectual pretence at seeming what they really were-heavily mullioned, and with little leaded hexagonal panes, emblazoned in the topmost compartments with the armorial bearings of all the family connexions for a score of generations back. It was an ancient house, but there were not the gaps in the walls that occurred in Francis's handiwork; neither were the trees that overgrew it such flourishes of exotic foliage, but massive firs and cedars, and dark ranks of yews, old almost as the hills for which one sinuous line in the background had to stand. An out-of-the-world place it was, and, in time of snow, cut off inexorably from neighbours; but, filed with those who were kind as well as kin, it First, there was Squire Hutton himself—gouty, goodhumoured, and generous; then there was the dame, comely and mirthful at sixty as at sixteen; there was the eldest son John, with his wife Theodora, and their leash of riotous boys; there were Ellen and Grace, with their rival girl-babies and respective husbands, Captain Blake and Sir Andrew Goodwin; there was old Uncle Christopher who had seen the world, and lived now at free-quarters, a pensioner in the house where he was born; there was Tom Martineau, a sort of cousin, who had travelled east and travelled west from youth to grey hairs, and always stayed his weary feet at Brackenfield between his wandering journeys; and lastly there was Millicent, the youngest daughter, very fair in her unwedded summer beauty, with a love-story to point a moral for the behoof of any fantastical maiden tempted to throw happiness away in a fit of caprice or pride, as she had done. At eighteen Millicent had been a lovely, spoilt girl, but rich in the charm that wins love. And many loved her-most of all Michael Forester, the younger son of Sir Gilbert Forester, her father's best friend and nearest neighbour, and after a breezy wooing they became engaged. Michael was frank, free and easy; it was a triumph for him to have won her, but having won her, he rested and was thankful. Perhaps he trusted her too well, who was by nature exacting; for his cheerful assurance she construed, first, into indifference, and then into neglect. Pride sealed her lips, but every change it made her heart ice to think of, she assumed as come already. When the time drew near for the fulfilment of her promise, she broke it. Michael was mortified beyond expression, and all the world of their acquaintance declared that Millicent Hutton had behaved extremely ill. Her punishment was not light. Stings of love, shame, pride, regret, each in turn pierced her to the quick. Michael acquiesced in her decision, and went his way; north, south-what was it to her? Yet wherever he went he carried her heart with him, and that perhaps everybody knew but himself. The lapse of time had brought many changes in and about Brackenfield since then. Mary, the eldest daughter, married eight years before to Mr. Wynyard of Eastwold, had entered on a course of suffering such as was but very imperfectly understood in her father's house. John had married, not ambitiously, but much to his liking, and the only other son had laid down his life in India. Helen and Grace had gone to homes of their own, and Millicent alone was left of all their children with the Squire and the dame. At the Grange old Sir Gilbert Forester had died, and another Sir Gilbert reigned in his stead, but Michael never came back. Tom Martineau met him once in a remote village of Algeria, where they joined in a lion hunt with a vagrant Scotch laird, and afterwards parted and went their several ways, but other tidings Millicent had none. As her fitful pride wore down, her character ripened to a rich maturity. To have taken her from Brackenfield now would have been to take away its sunshine; and the Squire looked with discouragement on any amorous swain who was tempted to cast a hope towards her. Uncle Christopher quizzed her as a paradox of constancy, and said often that she was saving up for Michael Forester yet; but, ah well-a-day! just three years after she had sent him from her, his letters home ceased. From that time till now-an interval of seven years-rumour had brought no news of him. Sir Gilbert Forester had entered into possession of his brother's lands, and had put up in the chancel of Brackenfield Church a marble shield inscribed to his memory. He was counted amongst the dead, but all else was mystery; and her friends spoke low before Millicent, when they speculated on how he had probably perished in some far-away torrid wild-unwept, unpitied, by strangers tended and buried. It was not so in reality, and as his return home took place during the memorable visit of the Eastwold children to grandpapa's house, and made a permanently happy and hopeful impression on Mr. Wynyard's ward, the joyous story shall be set forth as a prelude to her own longer and more varied chronicle. When the children and grandchildren were at Brackenfield for Christmas, the great hall was the favourite gathering-place of the family, and the fittest place, with its portraits in every panel, and its fires of Yule-logs blazing at either end. On Christmas Eve, in the afternoon, they were all there-Francis, Geoffrey and Maurice, Philip, Jimmy and Jack, Anna and Lois, tiny Poppie and toddling Nell-six boys under fifteen, and four girls under twelve. Oh, Babel! oh, glorious confusion! and their elders all enjoying it. In the midst of the floor was a heap of green boughs, amongst which the merry little folks were culling the richest in scarlet berries, and handing them up to Robin the gardener, who was decking the walls. The work went on until twilight, when it was nearly done, and there arose a question about hanging up the mistletoe; but behold! when the young ones looked out for the mistletoe, there was none to be found. No mistletoe? Christmas Eve, and no mistletoe! By all means let Robin go and cut some before the dark falls! Robin protested that he had put more than enough into the cart, and unless the kitchen wenches had stolen it there it must be still; so the big boys rushed away through intricate passages to the back door, Aunt Millicent and Penelope Croft following with Lois, a little grace of a girl who was in immense excitement about the absent mistletoe. There they found the cart waiting, with a smoky lantern dangling at the shaft, and a stiff-set lad at the horse's head, thrashing himself with long flail-like arms to keep up his vital heat. There was a windy gloom on that north quarter of the house, and the girls stayed within the porch while gardener's Jack threw out to the boys the last green branches of yew and holly. "Here it is, here's mistletoe!" cried Francis, and dashed off with all the other youngsters pursuing. But Millicent and Penelope stood transfixed at the apparition of a frozen white face which peered up at them from the darkness beyond the cart-such a face as Pennie had never seen either in the body or out of the body in her short life before. It seemed to gaze at them with unseeing, stony eyes, and then to turn and turn away, and recede into the purple gloom, but with never a sound of footstep or rustle of raiment, and so was lost in the blackness of the thick-clipt yews by the wall. Millicent's hand closed on Pennie's with a clutch that almost made her cry out for pain, and drawing her breath with a sob, she whispered, "It was Michael Forester's face!" Pennie did not exactly believe in ghosts, but she was mortally afraid of them; and her heart beat loud and thick as they hurried through the dark passages back to the ruddy fire-shine of the hall. | We have no yarn," said Pennie, answering with teeth a-chatter to one of the many names her grotesque little phiz had earned her. "But it is a night bitter enough to bleach the red out of even your face, sir." 66 That's right, Pennie, give it him. He grows more like beet-root every day," cried the Squire, and made room for her in the midst of the circle. Robin the gardener observed that there would be a fall of snow before morning. Everybody echoed his prediction, and said it was lucky it had held off over Christmas Eve, or else Brackenfield must have lacked many guests, now doubtless set off upon their dark and windy way to join in the revels with which Squire Hutton always kept that festival. At half-past five rang the dressing-bell, and away trooped young and old to make themselves gay for the dance that was to follow the dinner. Penelope was one of Millicent's most enthusiastic admirers, and her adoration pleased even while it amused the woman of sorrowful experiences. They had agreed to occupy one room, and this arrangement was now felt to be very consolatory. Millicent looked little in the mood for Christmas fun, and Pennie, to cheer her, vented a few orthodox reflections on the tricks of fancy. "Ever since Michael Forester ceased to write home I have believed him dead,” was Millicent's reply. "I have felt, too, that if he came to me I should not fear him." Not fear him! Yet she clung close to Pennie as they went down-stairs to the guests who were already assembling. Throughout the dinner the dismal shadow haunted Pennie's mind. Mirth, laughter, turkey, plum-pudding, were all thrown away upon her. Uncle Christopher rallied her in vain. Was she in love? Was she in debt, or any other difficulty? She had not a single retort left in her quiver, and Millicent was in the same silent case. It was easier in the hall afterwards. There there were so many, the children were so tumultuous, that a seceder or two from the universal din was not missed. When the first country-dance was set with thirty couples they were left out, and ensconced themselves in one of the deep window recesses. It was an old custom at Brackenfield, when any merrymaking was going on, to leave the curtains undrawn, that the village-folk might look in at the dancing. They had availed themselves of the chilly privilege on this occasion, and when the two girls entered the recess several rustic visages drew back, and retreated to another window, where there were no sitters-out to intercept their view. For ever so long Millicent and Pennie watched the brisk evolutions of the maze; admiring how the Squire went down the figure, as actively as if he were twenty, with sweet little granddaughter Lois, and how his dear dame threaded the needle with frisky Phil, her eldest son's eldest hope. This was the children's dance-rare fun, too; and when it was done they all kissed their partners under the mistletoe, and were then hustled off to supper of custard and cake, and so to bed; while the ancients, having gallantly accomplished an annual duty, were permitted to retire to whist; and the multitude, who were children grown up, kept the night alive with reels, cotillions, and more formal quadrilles. What a pretty, happy picture it was! The panelled | not propitiated when he bade her smooth down her walls blazing with light, the solemn ancestry looking prickles for a little fretful porcupine. She would have down from their garlanded frames, dignified, demure, liked to consult him about the ghost, but there was and prim-as if there were no country dances in their no encouragement in his rallying tone to enter on so day, no Hunt the Slipper, or Ladies' Toilet, or Kiss-in-serious a theme. the-ring, or cakes and ale at Christmas time when they were lads and lasses. Ah! the old generation shows wonderfully wise when it lives only in effigy! Those airy figures that flitted in gossamer to and fro in the shining hall are sober enough now, and their agile partners are considerably heavier on the wing. But they were merry under the mistletoe that Christmas night, and if they have given way to another generation, turn-about is but fair play-us to-day, you to morrow, all of us very soon yesterday! Millicent and Penelope bore their part in the dance again and again; but just before supper they found themselves once more in the window recess. They talked a little, and then looked out into the night, to see if it had kept its promise of snow, when again that spectral visage met them, eyes to eyes. For an instant only-they saw it, and it was gone! They both started away to the hearth, which Pennie left no more until she went in to supper. Her escort was Tom Martineau, who said, inquisitively, "There is something up between you and Milly-what is it ?" Pennie answered, "Nothing." "Greeting over spilt milk-just like women," rejoined he. Millicent sat opposite to them, her face as white as her white dress, but talking nervously fast, and laughing far more than was her wont, under the surprised observation of others besides Tom Martineau. It seemed as if the great Christmas pasty and the boar's head never would be cut up and eaten; as if the toasts and speeches never would be done. But there is an end to everything under the moon as well as under the sun, and that famous supper came to a close at last, and with it the night's chequered festivities. Millicent and Pennie were amongst the earliest to beat a retreat to their room. For an hour they sat talking by the fire, but as soon as they got into bed Pennie fell into the sleep of healthful weariness. She had not slept long, however, before she was reawakened by the sound of voices on the terrace under the window, and then the stilly darkness of the Christmas morning was broken by a loud-sung carol. Both she and Millicent rose to peep out at the waits, who stood in a ring on the lawn. Snow was falling, and the lantern they carried gave a light so dim that to Pennie not a face was discernible. But when they had watched about a minute, Millicent dropped the curtain, with a shuddering cry that Michael Forester was amongst the singers. The night got over somehow-Pennie even slept but when they made their appearance at breakfast, and everybody was wishing everybody else a happy Christmas, Millicent's pale cheek and nervous eye could not escape anxious remark from the dame; but as she persisted that nothing ailed her, save the drowsy consequences of a disturbed night, she was let alone. Only Uncle Christopher quizzed her a little, and prophesied that Brackenfield would hear of something to astonish it by-and-by-a new lover perhaps-who could tell? During the prayers in church he regarded her too with a mischievous intelligence. Pennie walked home with him after service, in stern, silent displeasure, and was Round the blazing Yule-logs after dinner somebody proposed stories; and nerve-thrilling legends, new and old, were recounted until Pennie's turn came, and found her dumb. Tom Martineau asked if she had no spiritual reminiscences to narrate, when Uncle Christopher answered for her: "Not she, the little infidel, she believes in nothing!" on which she looked guilty, and quavered out, No, she did not expecting the phantomface to confront her with the wicked equivocation on her lips. She wished bed-time were twenty-years off, yet when it came to good-night, Uncle Christopher, as if he uncannily divined her thoughts, whispered: "Don't be afraid, Pennie; the ghost is shut up in the kitchen-clock, and won't molest you if you say your prayers." He had some equally irreverent speech to make to Millicent, who had a sad sleepless night of it. Pennie dropped her head on the pillow, and knew nothing more till morning, when she woke so hale and sprightly that she was half in a mind to deride the vision, while Millicent's wearied nerves were more than ever sensitive to impressions of pain and terror. There was a beautiful walk in summer down one of the rides through the wood which skirted the Forester estates, but in winter it was commonly avoided as damp and dismal. After luncheon, however, when Millicent invited Pennie to turn out with her, she proposed going in that direction. Pennie consented, but not cheerfully. The open expanse of the park would have been pleasanter-looking forward to the haunted hours that would soon be upon them in the short December day. Under the firs, ladened with their frozen white Christmas fruitage, the ground was clear, but the wind whistled with a shrill music such as it is far more agreeable to hear sitting in a cosy chimneycorner than when it meets you in the teeth. With their cloaks drawn close and their heads bent down they battled against it to the end of the ride, and across a meadow dotted with fine park timber. Park in a fashion it was still, being only divided by a sunk fence from the neglected gardens of the Lodge-the place that would have been Millicent Hutton's home had she married Michael Forester. It was uninhabited now, and had been so ever since he left England, except by the bailiff and his wife. Sir Gilbert, it was reported, meant now to destroy the pretty pleasure grounds, and to turn the place into a farmstead. The change had been spoken of at dinner the night before, as likely to be taken in hand when the frost broke up, and Millicent wished to see the gardens again before the desecration began. They entered by a rustic gate and bridge across the sunk-fence, and coming round from the back of the house, strayed along a broad walk below the windows of the principal rooms, now all silent, shuttered, and dark. What a melancholy place is a deserted house! The dead leaves had apparently been allowed to gather the autumn through, and the snow now covered them where they lay in drifts along the foot of the wall. The wind had torn away the ivy from the south-west corner of the house, where it had been left hanging and flapping in the wild gusts like a flag of distress. It was not until they turned round by the east end that they came on any cheerful signs of habitation. Then from a wide, |