Robert discreetly closed the door. A moment later a thud from without,
and the quick footsteps crunching on the snow told him that their
visitor had departed.




CHAPTER II.

THE TENANT OF THE NEW HALL.


The snow had ceased to fall, but for a week a hard frost had held the
country side in its iron grip. The roads rang under the horses' hoofs,
and every wayside ditch and runlet was a street of ice. Over the long
undulating landscape the red brick houses peeped out warmly against the
spotless background, and the lines of grey smoke streamed straight up
into the windless air. The sky was of the lightest palest blue, and the
morning sun, shining through the distant fog-wreaths of Birmingham,
struck a subdued glow from the broad-spread snow fields which might
have gladdened the eyes of an artist.

It did gladden the heart of one who viewed it that morning from the
summit of the gently-curving Tamfield Hill Robert McIntyre stood with
his elbows upon a gate-rail, his Tam-o'-Shanter hat over his eyes, and a
short briar-root pipe in his mouth, looking slowly about him, with the
absorbed air of one who breathes his fill of Nature. Beneath him to the
north lay the village of Tamfield, red walls, grey roofs, and a
scattered bristle of dark trees, with his own little Elmdene nestling
back from the broad, white winding Birmingham Road. At the other