beginning to show signs of somnolency, when the hint was taken by Will, who rose from his position before the fire and lighted his stable lamp. After peeping into the ale jug, which, to his surprise, had been emptied at intervals by his father, he buttoned up his warm coat, and, shaking the old man's hand, he wished him a "good night," and took his leave.

The door had but just been closed when he returned, and, with a look of assumed seriousness, said:

"What do you say, father, as to the ghost of Merryman that appeared to you?"

"What do I say!" repeated the old man. "Why, that it was his spirit come to warn me of his death, to be sure."

"Did you never see it again ?" inquired his

son.

"Never, my boy, never," was the reply. "What do you think became of it?" said Will.

"Why, as to that, I can't say exactly. But I shouldn't wonder, when I reflect," said

the old man, pressing a finger upon his brow, "that the spirit of old Merryman may be in his son, the puppy Trimbush."

CHAPTER II.

THE SQUIRE AND HIS FAMILY.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd, and dew-lapp'd, like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn."
SHAKESPEARE.

SCOURFIELD HALL never looked more beautiful than at sunrise on the fourteenth of February, in the year of our Lord 18-. The grey mist rose slowly from the green turf, and hung upon the river in dense folds, as if reluctant to part with its more genial element. The old dark Elizabethan building was just tinged with the faint streaks of the rising sun, and the ivy-clad porch sparkled in the light, as the dew-wet leaves were shaken in the passing breeze. The rooks wheeled from the

lofty elms which shaded the building, and "cawed" their matin orisons with praiseworthy observance. A robin perched upon a blackthorn warbled his wild strain; and a woodpigeon, roused by the sound from his sluggish repose in a cedar-tree, as old as the hills in the distance, whir-r-d from his chosen roost, and sped to his morning meal. A large Newfoundland dog walked leisurely from the entrance, as a maid servant swung open the massive iron-studded hall-door, and, stretching his shaggy limbs upon the lawn, trotted leisurely off, to flirt with a lady pointer through the rails of her kennel.

The Manor House, as the hall was more generally called, was built in the year 1580, by Sir John Scourfield, who was knighted by the virgin queen, for what service to the crown history doth not record. But two auburn ringlets, quartered in the armorial bearings of the family, gave rise to some county scandal, of the worthy knight having fabricated a cunning wig for his royal mistress in her fading days, which deceived the Earl of Leicester so

completely, that he begged two ringlets from it for a locket. This so gratified her gracious majesty, that she dubbed her barber with the honour of knighthood, and granted him the privilege of wearing two ringlets rampant upon his shield."

From generation to generation, the Manor House and splendid estate had passed in a direct line to the heir, without quibble or dispute. No mortgage existed to render the possession of the broad lands but a nominal enjoyment of them; no fine old oaks came crashing to the ground to pay "debts of honour," but stood, as they had done for centuries, towering to the clouds, and stretching forth their time-mossed limbs over the earth that nurtured them, like grateful children protecting their mother.

The building stood upon elevated ground, which, gradually sloping, terminated at the edge of a narrow but rapid stream, about three hundred yards from the hall. A thick grove upon the opposite side formed a capacious rookery, where those cunning ornitho