still and empty. And I would have left you the care of my dogs, but you
are thoughtless, and will go much to London, and they are used to the
country now. Old Jones will have a cottage in the village,--he has
promised to live there; drop in now and then, and see poor Ponto and
Dash. It is late, and old friends come to dine here. So, if anything
happens to me, and we don't meet again, good-by, and God bless you.

Your affectionate kinsman, MILES ST. JOHN.




CHAPTER VII.

THE ENGAGEMENT.

It is somewhat less than three months after the death of Sir Miles St.
John; November reigns in London. And "reigns" seems scarcely a
metaphorical expression as applied to the sullen, absolute sway which
that dreary month (first in the dynasty of Winter) spreads over the
passive, dejected city.

Elsewhere in England, November is no such gloomy, grim fellow as he is
described. Over the brown glebes and changed woods in the country, his
still face looks contemplative and mild; and he has soft smiles, too, at
times,--lighting up his taxed vassals the groves; gleaming where the
leaves still cling to the boughs, and reflected in dimples from the waves
which still glide free from his chains. But as a conqueror who makes his
home in the capital, weighs down with hard policy the mutinous citizens
long ere his iron influence is felt in the province, so the first tyrant