I had it in a letter from Phoebe, the dairymaid at the Vicarage, who your honour may know is my sweetheart, or rather I am hers; and by your--' "`Sirrah, man, drop your sweetheart and come to your news! What is it ?' "`It is news of the squire, Master Hal!' said the man, seriously.
"`My father!' I exclaimed, suddenly sobered by the name.
"`He is ill, please your honour.

He had a stroke a week ago, and Phoebe says his life is despaired of.' "`Ill a week, and I never heard!' I exclaimed.

`Why did no one tell me ?' "`Your honour may remember you have not examined your letters for these three days past.' "It was true.

In the whirl of excitement, with late nights and later mornings, and never-ending frivolity, my very letters had lain on my mantelshelf unopened! "My man turned to take my horse away to the stable.

His action recalled me suddenly to myself.
"`Hold!' I said; `leave the horse here, Tucker, and help me into the saddle again.' "Tucker gazed at me in astonishment, but did as he was bid.
"`I am going to Culverton,' I said, shortly, taking up the reins.
"`To Culverton! At this hour, and in this weather!' said Tucker, in tones of alarm.