‘By all means, my dear creature, I am quite at your service, only do not oblige me to choose the game, that’s all. Speculation is the only round game at Croydon now, but I can play anything. When there is only one or two of you at home, you must be quite at a loss to amuse him. Why do you not get him to play at cribbage? Margaret and I have played at cribbage most nights that we have not been engaged.’
A sound like a distant carriage was at this moment caught ; everybody listened; it became more decided ; it certainly drew nearer. It was an unusual sound for Stanton at any time of the day, for the village was on no very public road, and containcd no gentleman's family but the rector’s. Thewheels rapidly approached; in two minutes the general expectation was answered ; they stopped beyond a doubt at the garden-gate of the parsonage. Who could it be? It was certainly a postchaise. Penelope was the only creature to be thought of; she might perhaps have met with some unexpected opportunity of returning. A pause of suspense ensued. Steps were distinguished along the paved footway, which led under the window of the house to the front door, and then within the passage. ‘They were the steps of a man. It could not be Penelope. It must be Samuel. The door opened, and displayed Tom Musgrave in the wrap of a traveller. He had been in London and was now on his way home, and he had come half-a-mile cut of his road merely to call for ten minutes at Stanton. He loved to take people by surprise with sudden visits at
