old gentleman who, under the name of Mr. Bagshot,--rather an ominous
cognomen,--offered to conduct the unsuspicious magistrate to the very
spot where the miscreants might be seized. No sooner, however, had he
drawn the poor justice away from his comrades into a lonely part of the
road than he stripped him to his shirt. He did not even leave his
worship his flannel drawers, though the weather was as bitter as the dog-
days of 1829.

"It is not my way," said the hoary ruffian, when the justice petitioned
at least for the latter article of attire,--"'t is not my way. I be 's
slow about my work, but I does it thoroughly; so off with your rags, old
un."

This was, however, the only additional instance of aggression in the
vicinity of Warlock Manor-house; and by degrees, as the autumn declined,
and no further enormities were perpetrated, people began to look out for
a new topic of conversation. This was afforded them by a piece of
unexpected good fortune to Lucy Brandon:

Mrs. Warner--an old lady to whom she was slightly related, and with whom
she had been residing during her brief and only visit to London--died
suddenly, and in her will declared Lucy to be her sole heiress. The
property, which was in the Funds, and which amounted to L60,000, was to
be enjoyed by Miss Brandon immediately on her attaining her twenty-first
year; meanwhile the executors to the will were to pay to the young
heiress the annual sum of L600. The joy which this news created in
Warlock Manor-house may easily be conceived. The squire projected
improvements here, and repairs there; and Lucy, poor girl, who had no
idea of money for herself, beyond the purchase of a new pony, or a gown
from London, seconded with affectionate pleasure all her father's