of the stable entrance on the left two faces appeared--one, which was
Dick's, sullen and angry, the other, that of a stable-boy, inquiring and
frankly interested. This second vanished again as the squire came
forward. A figure of a kitchen-boy, in a white apron, showed in the dark
doorway that led to the kitchen and hall, and disappeared again
instantly. From two or three upper windows faces peeped and remained
fascinated. Only the old hound remained still, twitching his ears.

All this--though there was nothing to be seen but the familiar personage
of the place, in his hat and cloak and sword, walking through his own
court on his way to dinner, as he had walked a thousand times before.
And yet so great was the significance of his coming to-day, that the
very gate behind him was pushed open by sightseers, who had followed at
a safe distance up the path from the church; half a dozen stood there
staring, and behind them, at intervals, a score more, spread out in
groups, all the way down to the porter's lodge.

The most remarkable feature of all was the silence. Not a voice there
spoke, even in a whisper. The maids at the windows above, Dick glowering
over the half door, the little group which, far back in the kitchen
entrance, peeped and rustled, the men at the gate behind, even the boys
in the path--all these held their tongues for interest and a kind of
fear. Drama was in the air--the tragedy of seeing the squire come back
from church for the first time, bearing himself as he always did,
resolute and sturdy, yet changed in his significance after a fashion of
which none of these simple hearts had ever dreamed.

So, again in silence, he went up the court, knowing that eyes were upon
him, yet showing no sign that he knew it; he went up the steps with the
same assured air, and disappeared into the hall.