and his foot is almost as light, his hand quite as heavy, as when he
entered the service of Guy's grandfather half a century ago. For
generations his family have been devoted to the preservation of game;
his six stalwart sons are all eminent in that line; and the "Kerton
breed" of keepers is renowned throughout the Midland shires. He is a
prime favorite with the village children and their mothers, for, in all
respects save one, his heart is as soft as a woman's; to poachers it is
as the nether millstone. There is the stain of a "justifiable homicide"
on the old man's hands--the blood of an antagonist slain in fair fight,
in those rough times when the forest was, and marauders came out by
scores to strike its deer. I do not think the deed has weighed heavily
on his conscience (though he never has spoken of it since), or troubled
his healthy, honest slumbers.

To the left is Guy, repressing the attentions of four couple of strong
red and white spaniels, but _not_ those of Miss Bellasys, who, standing
at the oriel window of the library, is good-natured enough to fasten the
band of his wide-awake for him, which has come undone. As he stands
with his towering head a little bent, murmuring the "more last words,"
Sir Henry, contemplating the picture with much satisfaction, smacks his
lips, and suggests "Omphale."

Last of all, Mr. Raymond comes slowly down the staircase, followed by
his son-in-law that is to be. Forrester and I have been ready long ago,
so we start.

Bruce did shoot, certainly, if discharging his gun on the slightest
provocation constituted the fact; but he shot curiously ill. Indeed, he
might have formed a pendant to that humane sportsman who, having taken
to rural sports _sero sed serio_, said, in extreme old age, "that it was