in appeal; that shattered tank became a tattered flag of distress. The windows looked like scared eyes, the broad doorway a mouth gaping with terror. The whole building quivered with human horror, was silent with frozen awe.

In the year 1856 Henry Walter Grey's father died, and the son became sole proprietor of the Daneford Bank. Up to that time the son had lived, with his wife, to whom he had then been married six years, in the Bank-house as manager under his father. There were only a few years' lease of his father's suburban residence, to run, and a likelihood arose that the landlord would not renew, so young Grey had to look out for a home, as he intended appointing a manager and living away from the office.

At that time the Manor House was in the market, and Mr. Grey bought it for, as he said, "a song, and a very poor song, too," considering the extent of the Park, the value of the timber, and the spacious old house. As a matter of fact, no one valued the dwelling at a penny beyond what the sale of its stones would bring; for the impression of the seller was that, owing to its uncanny aspect and bad name, no one would think of buying it to live in.

All Daneford was taken by surprise when it heard that young Grey, Wat Grey, Wat had bought the fearful Manor House in which no family had lived for generations, and from which even the furniture and servants had been long since withdrawn. Did he mean to take it down, build a new house, and effect a wholesome clearance of those odious groves?

No, he had answered, with a light laugh, he harboured no intention of knocking down the old house to please the neighbours; of course he was going to repair the house, and when it was fully restored he would ask his friends to come and try if beef and mutton tasted worse, or wine was less cheering, under that roof because nervous people had been pleased to frighten themselves into fits over the Park and the Manor House.

In a year the house had been put into thorough order, and even the tower had not been wholly neglected, for one room of it, that on a level with Mr. Grey's own bedroom, had been completely renovated into a kind of extra dressing-room to Mr. Grey's bedroom, from which a short passage led to it.

Nothing was done to the ground-floor of the tower; nothing was done to the floor on a level with the dormar; nothing was done with the floor above the dormar.

Nothing was done to the unsightly tank on the top of the tower.

With respect to the rooms of the tower, Mr. Grey said he had no need of more than the one.

With respect to the tank, he said he would in no way try to diminish the unprepossessing aspect of the exterior of the house; he would rely upon the interior, the good cheer and the welcome beneath the roof, to countervail the ill-omened outer walls.

There was another reason, too, Mr. Grey said, why he had made up his mind to alter nothing in the surrounding grounds or outward aspect of the house—he wanted to see whether that house was going to beat him, or he was going to beat that house.

So when all was in order, he set about house-warming on a prodigious scale—a scale that was a revelation to the people of Daneford.

He filled all the bedrooms with guests, and had a couple of dozen men to dine with him every day for a fortnight.

He told his servants, as long as they did their work punctually and satisfactorily, they might have friends to see them, and might make their friends welcome to the best things in the servants' hall every day for a fortnight.

There were bonfires in the courtyard, and fiddlers and dancing. A barrel of beer was placed on the horse-trough, and mugs and cans appeared in glittering rows on a table beside the cask, and painted on the butt-end of the cask the words, "Help yourself."

When he lived in town his establishment had consisted of three servants. For the fête a dozen additional servants were engaged and a French cook. There were a lodge and gate to the Manor Park, but there was no lodge-man or woman; and during the festivities the gate always stood open until midnight, and all passersby were free to come in and join the dancers and partake of the ale.

One day he had all the clerks of his own bank to dine with him; and while they were over their wine and cigars he informed them their salaries were from that hour advanced twenty per cent.

He was then a simple member of the Chamber of Commerce; he had not yet been elected chairman. He entertained the whole Chamber another evening, and then told the members he had that day written to their secretary, declaring his resolution not to charge interest on the money advanced by his bank—three thousand pounds—for the completion of the new building in course of construction by the Chamber.

A third evening he asked all the members of the Harbour Board, and told them that he had made up his mind to abandon the old claim for interest on their overdraughts set up by his father.

Then he gave a Commercial Club evening, to which were bidden all his friends and acquaintances, who were also members of the club. After roast beef came two large silver dishes, on one of which was, plainly enough, plum-pudding; on the other, something that was plainly not plum-pudding. The host nodded to the servants, and both dishes burst into flame; the dish that contained the plum-pudding standing opposite the treasurer of the club, at the foot of the table; the thing that was not plum-pudding standing opposite the banker. Whatever had been before him was, when the brandy ceased to burn, all consumed, except a little black matter that floated about on the surface of the fluid in the dish.

"Everyone must have some of my new sauce. I invented it myself, and I will take it as a favour if all will taste it with the pudding."

All partook of it and praised it highly, and many said they had never tasted its like before, and several began elaborate analyses of it, and minute comparisons between it and a hundred of well-known sauces.

After a while he said: "The roast beef and plum-pudding of Old England for ever!" Then pointing to the dish containing the floating black matter before him, "And the ashes of my mortgage on the club property once!"

The Boat Club were his guests another evening, and a large gold loving-cup was brought in and carried about with a rich compound of dark wines and stimulating spices, and out of this all were to drink. When all had tasted and toasted in the common cup the object of their common solicitude, the last man after drinking called out that there was something which rattled and jingled and slid about in the bottom of the cup. The master of the house seemed more inquisitive than any of the others, bade the finder spill out the contents of the cup on a salver, and, behold, one hundred and five new sovereigns fresh from the Mint! Upon this discovery the host rose and said that love was the rarest of alchemy, and that the touch of a score of loyal lips, all having the one interest at heart, had changed the liquor into gold for the good of the club, and that the gold and the cup must go together to the club.

When he had the organisers and directors of the Poor's Christmas Coal Fund to dinner, each member found, folded up in his napkin, twenty orders, each order for five shillings' worth of coal.

Such generous and kindly deeds, and such cordial hospitality, could not but endear him to the people of Daneford; and by reason of his knowing so many men intimately, and each one of these men being more or less proud of the acquaintance, they all called him "Wat," to show how very intimate they were with him, and to show that in the best commercial set in Daneford there was no one else known by the name of Wat. They called him Wat in preference to Henry or Harry, because there is not perhaps among all the Christian names one which admits of such an intimately familiar contraction as Walter.

But all the banqueting and largess did not disenchant the ominous mansion.

Those who had been at the