privilege as a guest had become prescriptive now. Had he claimed
the head of the table, even the skeleton would have been ejected
from its seat.

Finally, at the merry Christmas-tide, when he had numbered fourscore
years complete, this pale, highbrowed, marble-featured old man once
more entered the long-frequented hall, with the same impassive
aspect that had called forth so much dissatisfied remark at his
first attendance. Time, except in matters merely external, had done
nothing for him, either of good or evil. As he took his place he
threw a calm, inquiring glance around the table, as if to ascertain
whether any guest had yet appeared, after so many unsuccessful
banquets, who might impart to him the mystery--the deep, warm
secret--the life within the life--which, whether manifested in joy
or sorrow, is what gives substance to a world of shadows.

"My friends," said Gervayse Hastings, assuming a position which his
long conversance with the festival caused to appear natural, "you
are welcome! I drink to you all in this cup of sepulchral wine."

The guests replied courteously, but still in a manner that proved
them unable to receive the old man as a member of their sad
fraternity. It may be well to give the reader an idea of the
present company at the banquet.

One was formerly a clergyman, enthusiastic in his profession, and
apparently of the genuine dynasty of those old Puritan divines whose
faith in their calling, and stern exercise of it, had placed them
among the mighty of the earth. But yielding to the speculative
tendency of the age, he had gone astray from the firm foundation of