CHAPTER 3.
Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and the white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow across the white ground, while the Rev.Amos Barton, and his wife are audibly crushing the crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock on Friday evening, they approach the door of the above-named desirable country residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, etc., situated only half a mile from the market-town of Milby.
Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a pleasant but uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a lady who is reclining behind a screen in the corner of the sofa, and allowing you to discern that the hair of the gentleman who is seated in the arm-chair opposite, with a newspaper over his knees, is becoming decidedly grey.

A little 'King Charles', with a crimson ribbon round his neck, who has been lying curled up in the very middle of the hearth-rug, has just discovered that that zone is too hot for him, and is jumping on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accommodating his person on the silk gown.

On the table there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as the expected knock is heard at the door.
The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently Mr.and Mrs.
Barton are ushered in--Mr.Barton erect and clerical, in a faultless tie and shining cranium; Mrs.Barton graceful in a newly-turned black silk.
'Now this is charming of you,' said the Countess Czerlaski, advancing to meet them, and embracing Milly with careful elegance.

'I am really ashamed of my selfishness in asking my friends to come and see me in this frightful weather.' Then, giving her hand to Amos, 'And you, Mr.Barton, whose time is so precious! But I am doing a good deed in drawing you away from your labours.

I have a plot to prevent you from martyrizing yourself.' While this greeting was going forward, Mr.Bridmain, and Jet the spaniel, looked on with the air of actors who had no idea of by-play.