“‘By your leave, Master Hal,’ said he, saluting, ‘I thought you might like to know there is bad news from Culverton.’
“‘How?’ I demanded, scarcely taking in what he said.
“‘Bad news, begging your honour’s pardon. I had it in a letter from Phoebe, the dairymaid at the Vicarage, who your honour may know is my sweetheart, or rather I am hers; and by your—’
“‘Sirrah, man, drop your sweetheart and come to your news! What is it?’
“‘It is news of the squire, Master Hal!’ said the man, seriously.
“‘My father!’ I exclaimed, suddenly sobered by the name.
“‘He is ill, please your honour. He had a stroke a week ago, and Phoebe says his life is despaired of.’
“‘Ill a week, and I never heard!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why did no one tell me?’
“‘Your honour may remember you have not examined your letters for these three days past.’
“It was true. In the whirl of excitement, with late nights and later mornings, and never-ending frivolity, my very letters had lain on my mantelshelf unopened!