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CHAPTER III.

THE NEW MASTER OF GREY TOWERS.

OM BURGES is a very satisfied man when all the preliminaries are finally over, and he finds himself free to do as he pleases on the estate Aunt Hetty has left him. With his usual keen worldly wisdom, one of his first steps is to discharge all the old servants and retainers about the place, before he puts in an appearance as master there.

He thinks it best to come into possession as a free, unbiassed owner, with no family traditions or old-world sentimentality ready to crop up and confront him at every

turn.

So it happens, that when he drives in through the lodge gates of Grey Towers in his smart new dog-cart, there is only Ned Hartley there to meet him, and he comes limping out of the stables, all in a hurry, to greet the Squire.

"I suppose you received my letter, Hartley," says Tom graciously, as he flourishes his whip in his daintily-gloved fingers.

"Oh, yes, sir; and my misses is quite ready to wait on your honour as long as you're pleased to want her."

"All right then; but I shan't be here long now. The workmen are coming to put the place in order next week.” He throws the reins to the man, and proudly stalks up the broad steps to the house.

/ people might have shrunk from the dreary stillness proda, LLC have felt awed by the solemn gloom of the

koos with shutters closed over the windows, and pasbigby Net echo to no foot-fall, galleries where cobwebs are gunay ingluing to cluster, and walls already growing dp and dewed.

B. Tom Burges has not much reverence or sentimenLoy sixout him. He strides about the place and feels himsof master of it from floor to roof, from wall to ceiling. Wange, rusty bunch of keys in his hand, he goes about bravely from room to room.

"Fungi! the place smells as close and musty as an old ve, but I'll soon remedy that," exclaims he as he makes Lis way to the great drawing rooms; and one after another Let.rows the windows wide open.

Then the fresh pure air comes streaming in, and the early spring sunshine lights up the place.

Mr. Burges goes towards a window, leans against the sill, and stands for a while contemplating the fair scene that opens out to his view.

A bright landscape with the noon-day sun pouring down a flood of golden splendour. Before the house an ample lawn that seems to merge, on either side, into pretty parklike enclosures of trees and shrubs. Further off, broad fields of pasture-land sloping down by gradual descent to the banks of a somewhat winding river. Still further in the distance, a range of irregularly shaped hills, wooded to the very outline, and flecked and dotted here and there with snug farms with their homesteads, outhouses, and belongings.

Nothing can be brighter than the tender greens on the trees now just donning their spring garb, or more graceful than the purple tassels on the pines and larches, or more at than the emerald tints of the grassy sward.

Squic, though he has no poet's eye to note the

harmony of nature, is yet very well satisfied with the view, and feels his heart throb with proud elation as the indescribable spell of beauty attracts him.

"Something better than North Alley, this," muses he pleasantly. “Somewhat better air here than the mixture of dust and fog I used to inflate my lungs with in that dingy, cramped-up old office of mine. Ten times better a lookout than we had at Kingston even. Let me see-here are water and field, hill and tree, pasture-land and valley. I never admired the view so much before, often as I've seen it. True, the place is my own now, and I daresay that makes the chief charm after all. Well! after a man has given the prime of his life to hard work, he deserves a pleasant resting-place to settle down in, and I've been no sluggard in my day. I've worked hard enough for any one."

North Alley was the salubrious locality off one of the business streets in London-in which Mr. Burges had till very lately carried on his employment of ship-broker-and at Kingston was the very minute, highly-genteel villa where his family lived, and from, and to which, his daily journeys had sped.

But this experience is already a thing of the past. Tom Burges is coming out in a new character, his ledgers are closed, his business disposed of, his office let to another, and he is preparing to enter with becoming zest into all the responsibilities and enjoyments of a wealthy country gentleman.

Had he glanced out of the side windows of the Grey Towers he would have seen the dingy houses and smoky factories that form the village of Eastown, where Leonard Thwaites lives.

An ugly, roughly-paved, ill-built place that same Eastown. is on a near view, yet mellowed by distance, the rude outlines are half hidden, and the hideousness is partially softened. The groups of crowded buildings with their tiled

roofs, and quaint gables, the narrow streets with their abrupt turnings, become even picturesque from a far-away standpoint.

But the squire has neither time nor inclination to look that way, nor does he think of his kinsman, the curate, except with a superior sort of pity, mingled with a degree of triumph in his thoughts.

There is enough in Grey Towers to occupy his full attention now. With the eye of a connoisseur he paces about the huge drawing-rooms, the furniture and painting of which has all grown sombre, and grey, and faded, during Aunt Hetty's fifty years reign there.

This dinginess must be all banished, and Tom's vivid imagination conjures up pictures of the rooms as they shall appear by-and-by.

Delicate papers shall clothe the walls, rich carpets of the most approved pattern and costly texture, shall replace the threadbare, dingy old curiosities that are now stretched on the floors. Elegant furniture, dainty colouring, choice pictures, pretty effects! shall all embellish the place. Whatever money can buy shall ere long adorn the old house, and delight the heart and please the eye.

It is an entrancing study to the new owner. He stands a long time with his arms folded, rapt in contemplation, as his fancy sketches out the glowing scene ere long to spring out of the gloomy one before him.

Then Tom grows practical, his old business habits return, and with pencil and paper he reduces his fancies to a clearly drawn-out plan of his intended improvements.

He goes up to Aunt Hetty's bedchamber. The room has been but little disturbed since the poor old lady was borne from it to her quiet resting-place in Eastown churchyard.

Surely some feeling of awe or respect makes the squire pause thus at the door, as he glances rapidly round the apartment.

No, he is only thinking what a gloomy old room it looks now, and that it will do for a future guest-chamber when visitors shall by-and-by be gathered at Grey Towers. He is only deciding that the odious four-posted bedstead, with its citreen moreen curtains, and its heavy fringes shall be banished for ever, and the whole contour of the room changed.

Two ebony cabinets, with wondrous gilded birds and flowers painted on its doors, stand in this chamber; an oldfashioned chest of drawers is there also, various antique boxes, a brass-bound desk, and several locked-up closets, all full of curiosities and valuable things. Sacred places these, hitherto! familiar only to Aunt Hetty's eyes, and carefully guarded from the prying gaze of relative or

servant.

Most men of delicate and sensitive mind would feel some reluctance in meddling with the cherished secrets of the dead. If needs be, they must bring them forth to the light, they would handle them respectfully, and go about the task with a hushed, subdued spirit. Tom Burges however is free from all such scruples, no timid nicety hinders his research, and he plunges his hands carelessly into box and drawer.

For hours to come he may be seen prying into secret corners, and bringing into scrutiny all the hoarded treasures Aunt Hetty has so carefully kept out of sight.

He unfolds silk dresses of marvellous richness and curious design that are still in the piece, and are wrapped up in time-stained paper. He examines jewels and trinkets, laces and ribbons, that would supply the toilets of half-a-dozen moderately fashionable ladies.

He opens journals in parchment bindings, looks over papers on law and household matters, he glances at bills and receipts, pockets little sums of hoarded money, draws out huge packets of letters that are arranged with methodical regularity, and tied with pink tape.

Fain would he go through every document in the large