"But--I beg pardon, your honour--if they be great folks?"

"Great folks!--great! Ay, there it is. Why, if they be great folks,
they have great houses of their own, Mr. Justis."

The steward stared. "Perhaps, your honour," he put in, deprecatingly,
"they be Mr. Merton's family: they come very often when the London
gentlemen are with them."

"Merton!--oh, the cringing parson. Harkye! one word more with me, sir,
and you quit my service to-morrow."

Mr. Justis lifted his eyes and hands to heaven; but there was something
in his master's voice and look which checked reply, and he turned slowly
to the door--when a voice of such heavenly sweetness was heard without
that it arrested his own step and made the stern Maltravers start in his
seat. He held up his hand to the steward to delay his errand, and
listened, charmed and spell-bound. His own words came on his ear,--words
long unfamiliar to him, and at first but imperfectly remembered; words
connected with the early and virgin years of poetry and aspiration; words
that were as the ghosts of thoughts now far too gentle for his altered
soul. He bowed down his head, and the dark shade left his brow.

The song ceased. Maltravers moved with a sigh, and his eyes rested on
the form of the steward with his hand on the door.

"Shall I give your honour's message?" said Mr. Justis, gravely.

"No; take care for the future; leave me now."