Almost every village possesses a house of public entertainment, however humble in appearance. Unfortunately, this is generally the most comfortable place accessible to the lower orders, who are often unwittingly tempted to increase the one pint of beer, which secures a seat by the large inn fire, drop by drop, till habits of drunkenness are too readily acquired. Some have recommended the establishment of something similar to a coffee-room in every village, where laboring men might enjoy the pleasures of society and conversation, without the temptations to a vice which adds many a tragedy to "the short and simple annals of the poor."

It could indeed scarcely be wondered at, that at Aston, many of the laborers left their weather-beaten cottages, which, in some cases, formed scarcely a shelter from the wind and rain—and, without stopping to calculate the mischief which might ensue to their neglected families, should frequently resort to the "Hargrave Arms," where a blazing fire and a comfortable seat by a chatty neighbour were generally to be found. Here, at least, poverty and discomfort might be forgotten for a while, even by those who did not seek to drown remembrance in the fatal draught.

One Friday evening, many of the regular customers of the house assembled themselves as usual, more, perhaps, to chat than to drink, for they seldom carried their conviviality to any great height, except on the Saturday, when the young men of the village brought, too often, the first fruits of their week's earnings. On the occasion we now mention, a more sober conclave was assembled. The white haired Giles, whom Clair had visited with his uncle, on the first morning of his visit, was one of the guests. Not, now, with his head bent, and his hands extended over the dying embers of his wood fire, but with head erect in a comfortable corner, with the air of a man whose opinions are respected, and whose words claim immediate attention. Martin, the poacher, was also there, smoking a pipe, whose dusty colour bespoke long service. Besides these, were several of the most respectable labourers of the village, young and old.

The landlord, himself, was a middle aged, sleepy looking man, with eyes that seemed to say that they had no particular time for taking rest, but seized every opportunity that occurred for shutting up at a moment's notice.

The night was cold and gusty, and the large fire burnt with peculiar brightness—conversation went on briskly; when a new object of attention presented itself in the sound of horses' feet, which at this hour were very unusual.

This caused the landlord's eyes to open to the things about him, and he walked to the door to offer whatever hospitality might be required by the new comer.

By the time he had reached the open air, which he did with some reluctance, he found that the rider had dismounted. His horse appeared to have been well ridden, for, though a fine strong built animal, fitted for the hilly country he had been through, he seemed exhausted, and covered with dust and foam. The gentleman, on the contrary, seemed perfectly cool and free from fatigue, and equally indifferent to the weather, though the wind was high, and easterly, and his short cloak was whitened by the snow, which had been falling, at intervals, during the afternoon, giving signs of an early coming winter. There was sufficient of that nameless something in his appearance, even by the light of our host's lantern, to speak him a gentleman, and to procure for him a series of nods, intended for graceful acknowledgments of welcome.

"My horse wants rest, and a good stable," said the new comer; "light me, and I will see him housed, myself. I will follow you."

This was spoken in a tone of accustomed and easy authority, and taking the bridle over his arm, he followed his landlord to the stable; where, with indifferent extravagance which baffled any interference, he seized an immense armful of straw from a heap which lay in one corner, and threw it on the bed, which already seemed tolerably supplied. So rapid and easy were his movements, that, before his astonished landlord had framed the remonstrance he meditated offering, he announced himself ready to accompany him to the house.

"Would you like dinner in the parlor, sir," enquired his sleepy host, leading him back through the court-yard.

"No, I will take a glass of grog, in the bar."

"The bar is full, sir; and maybe you will not like—."

"What," enquired the stranger, "to sit side by side, with a poor man—you are mistaken, but heark-ye," said he, stopping, "the less civility you show me the better, I will pay you."

"I twig," he replied, shutting one sleepy eye with an attempt to look cunning, while, at the same time, he was a little startled at the deep and peculiar tone of the voice which addressed itself so particularly to his ear, and he was not sorry to catch a full view of his own huge blazing fire, and the familiar faces around it.

"A stranger wants a seat by the fire," muttered he, as he entered the bar.

"A stranger should have the best seat," said old Giles, moving quietly to offer him his arm-chair.

"I have been accustomed, sir, to take place according to my years," said the stranger, in a voice of peculiar melody, as he declined the offer, and, at the same time, chose a seat further from the fire, where the fitful light only sometimes partially illumed his countenance.

"Landlord," said he, "your guests will, I dare say, join me in my grog; bring enough, not forgetting yourself."

A short silence followed this speech, partly caused by the landlord's absence; during which all eyes were turned to observe the appearance of the last arrival. His figure was considerably above the middle height, but his limbs were in such exact proportion, that he preserved the appearance of strength which tall men often lose. His shoulders were broad, and his chest wide and expansive. The only sign of delicacy about him appeared in his hand, which, for his height, was small, and very white and smooth, ornamented by a plain signet ring. This, they had an opportunity of observing, for his head was resting on his hand, though, seemingly more in thought than fatigue. His eyes were large, dark, and penetrating, made to flash with anger, to command, or reprove; yet, bearing in general a cold still hue, as if more accustomed to command, or to suffer, than to ask, or supplicate the world's favour. The mouth was expressive of great sweetness, as long as his features continued, in repose, though the lips seemed especially capable of curling into a sneer. His nose was long and aquiline, and gave a character of boldness to the countenance; and a finely sloped head, well set upon his shoulders, added to his lofty bearing.

All these features, fitted to form a face of striking manly beauty, were quite spoilt by the fact that, while the whiskers, moustache, and finely arched eye-brows, were black; his hair, of which he wore a great deal, and that, too long for the English fashion, was of a bright red, and gave a very peculiar shade to his countenance.

His dress was half military, though remarkably simple, and on the present occasion, much soiled with long riding, and even shabby; with the exception of his boots, which appeared to have shared the care which had secured to the hand the marks of gentle breeding. It would have been very difficult to trace his age, in any part of his outward bearing, beyond the certainty that he was neither twenty nor fifty—anything between these two periods might have been attributed to him without much difficulty. Since his entrance he had not changed the position into which he had thrown himself; perfectly at ease in every limb, and still as a statue, he seemed scarcely aware of the observation he excited from his companions.

Probably he was inured to the weather, and indifferent to its effects, for he did not attempt to dry his clothes by drawing nearer the fire. Perhaps, his studious silence was intended to set his companions at ease, or, perhaps, occupied with other thoughts, he really forgot them after the first order he had given for their entertainment. However it might be, conversation gradually returned to its former channel, and he remained almost unnoticed.

The snowy afternoon led them to speak of the weather, when Martin enquired, with an indifferent tone—

"Did it come in upon you last night, Giles?"

"It did sadly," he replied; "I was obliged to get up, and move my bed."

"Has the rain been so heavy here then?" enquired the stranger with some interest.

"Not in particular, sir," said Martin, "if our roofs were waterproof—but they ain't; I don't care who knows it. Look at this old man," he said, turning to Giles, "is he fit to live in a hole with the roof half off, and the sun and rain coming in every where. It almost drives me wild to think of it—and if it goes on much longer, there'll be mischief come on it, that I know."

"Do not talk in that way," said old Giles, gently, "if I am content with my house, you should not make it a cause for dispute."

"Yes; but if any one could claim a proper shelter for his head, it is you, Giles. You served the family for fifty years, and after spending the best part of your life working for them, the least they could do, would be to keep the wind and rain off your old white head."

"It is not right to talk like this, Martin," returned Giles, gravely, "for you might make me discontented with my lot. You forget that by allowing me to work for them, they gave me food for all those years—and if I did my work honestly, only for the reward they had to give me, I deserved to lose it."

"Of what family are you speaking?" enquired the stranger, slightly rousing himself, and drawing a little more into the circle.

"Who is your landlord, and what prevents his seeing to your comforts?"

Martin seemed anxious to reply; but he was prevented by Giles.

"Our landlord is Colonel Hargrave, a very brave officer, I have heard; but, in looking for glory abroad, he has, unfortunately for himself and us, forgotten his dependents at home. He has scarcely seen anything of us since he came into the property."

"But surely," said the stranger, warmly, "if he did spend his time beyond the seas—I dare say, for some private reason—he must have left some trusty steward, who could take charge of his property during his absence, and protect the labourers on his estate from the privations you speak of?"

"Trusty steward, indeed," Martin began, in a growling voice, but Giles again interrupted him.

"Sir, it is kind of you to take so much interest in our concerns. It may be that you have estates somewhere yourself—it may be that you have left them to the care of others, believing that you are trusting honest servants; but, if you could see how much we have suffered, you would never do so again. Our landlord has left with us an oppressive and cruel man, who takes pleasure in shewing his power in the smallest thing. In our good lady's time, we were allowed to pick up any wood that the wind blew down, so that our firing cost us next to nothing; but now this is entirely done away by the keepers. Many of our little rights too he has taken away, according, as he says, to his master's orders, though 'tis not very likely a gentleman abroad would think of such things so many miles away. He receives our rents without spending any part of them in repairing our cottages, and the consequence is, they are tumbling down for want of repair, while the same rent is demanded for them. This brings much illness and discomfort—but what I lament over most," said the old man, with a sigh, "is that the feelings of every one are aggravated against Colonel Hargrave, who, it may be, knows nothing about it."

"Then he ought to know," said Martin.

"There is a sad spirit spreading, sir," said Giles, casting, as he continued, a reproving look on Martin, "amongst our young men, and a hatred of the gentry, which cannot be right, though it is hard to keep them from it when we have so much privation."

"Aye, that is true enough," said Martin, glancing at his younger companions.

"Why do you not write to Colonel Hargrave?" said the stranger, bending forwards, and suffering his large full eye to fall on Martin for an instant, "surely you should not judge him so hastily."

"Parson Ware has written, and the only answer he gets is, that Mr. Rogers is an old and tried servant, and he can depend on his doing for the best."

A bitter laugh went round the circle in echo to this unpopular opinion.

The stranger lent back in his chair, and fixing his eyes on the fire, seemed inclined to leave the conversation, which the wounded feelings of those present appeared likely to render too heated.

"Things never went right," said a little old man in the chimney-corner, in a deep husky voice, for he prided himself on being a sort of prophet in the village, "since he went to France, and I never had no very great opinion of Frenchmen before—ha, ha, ha!" There did not seem much to call for laughter; but he generally accompanied his speeches with that peculiar chuckle, which sounded anything but pleasantly to those who were not accustomed to him. "I saw him many times after that," continued he, "and he warn't the same open-hearted gentleman he was afore. He often looked as if he'd got some one looking over his shoulder as he didn't over relish—ha, ha!"

The sepulchral chuckle which followed this remark produced a short, uneasy silence, which was broken by Martin, who enquired—

"Do you think his religion has anything to do with our houses and wages?"

"Yes," replied Giles, "can we expect that he who has proved disloyal to his Maker, would be thoughtful for his fellow men."

He spoke in a tone of such gentle authority, that even Martin was silent, and, for a few seconds, the ticking of the old-fashioned clock, and the crackling of the wood on the fire, were the only sounds.

"I can call to mind," resumed the old man, interrupting the silence, which had followed his last remark, "a time of much sorrow to me, and I never think of it without trembling. It is some years since, now, when I worked on the Manor, and I used to be something of a favorite of my young master's; and I am sure, at that time, I would have given my life to serve him; he had such a way with him; no one had anything to do with him without loving him. Well I remember how glad I was when he ordered me to go out with him to beat up the bushes for game. But the time I said I was sorry to remember, was when, one Saturday night late, he came down here in a great hurry, and he said he must go again on the Monday, and so he would look about him. I can't tell how it was we took so to each other; but I was strong and hearty then, though 'tis but a few years ago. Martin speaks truth when he says I have served the family fifty years, for I began by running errands for the servants, when I was but a little boy, and I am now nearly seventy; but I was quite a strong man at that time I have been talking about, and I used often to go out shooting with Master Hargrave, to carry his game, and such like. Well, on this Sunday morning, he told me to take his gun, and wait for him at the entrance of the wood. Nobody ever said no to him then, and I had not the courage, and, though I knew that I was doing wrong all the while, I took the gun; and went as he bade me. We had a regular good day's sport, and we went to the woods furthest from the village, for fear the guns or dogs might be heard. 'Twas a beautiful autumn afternoon, I know, as we came home, and, when we came to the wood overlooking the church, the bells rang out such a merry peal. I had forgot 'twas Sunday, for my blood was hot, and the sport was good; but now, as we stopped on the top of the hills, like thieves, I could not help wishing we had never been out, and I said so with a dogged, frightened air, for I was afraid of him all the while. He laughed at my fright, and began talking as if going to church were all mummery. Well, I could not help listening—what he said seemed so clever and funny, I could not answer him. After that day, I began to doubt and doubt, till I believed nothing the minister said, and left off going to church."

"And what turned ye?" enquired the little man in the chimney-corner.

"I was wretched," replied Giles; "I felt that I had no comfort upon earth, and no hope beyond it. Till, at last, I thought that this unbelief was only a curse for having done wrong. So I took to prayer, and never gave it up till better thoughts came."

"But how," asked the stranger, bending forward, and regarding the old man earnestly, till it made him almost shrink from that dark eye, which looked almost piteous in its intensity, while the voice of the enquirer was touching, deep, and melodious, "how could you pray when you had no faith."

"Sir," said Giles, "whatever creed or religion you may profess, you must still feel, that to doubt as I did, is the greatest curse that can fall upon the heart of man, and doubt as we may, we know it to be a curse. If you ever feel as I did, do not ask questions, and put yourself wrong, and then try and set yourself right by your own judgment, as I did; but go down upon your bended knees, and pray for light as a child might pray—I never found peace till then."

The stranger folded his arms upon his breast, and, with his eyes fixed on the fire, as before, gave no sign that he had even heard the reply to his question.

Giles, perhaps, thought he had said too much, and remained in confusion, glancing uneasily at him. The wind, which had been rising more and more during the evening, now howled aloud increasing the comfort of the inn fire, and the dislike of the party to separate; yet no one seemed inclined to speak, and the wind roared on, yelling as it swept in heavy gusts through the building.

Suddenly, a loud and tremulous knocking was heard at the door, together with voices demanding admittance. After a little hesitation, the door was opened by the landlord, and several women rushed in, crying vehemently.

"For, heaven's sake, come and help us, for the place is all on fire!"