CHAPTER IV.
SOME NEW FACES.
The twilight of a winter's evening, succeeding a short and stormy day, was fast fading into night, and old John Thornton sat dozing in his chair before the fire, waiting for candles to resume his reading.

He was now but little over sixty, yet his hair was snowy white, and his face looked worn and aged.

Anyone who watched his countenance now in the light of the blazing wood, might see by the down-drawn brows and uneasy expression that the old man was unhappy and disquieted.
The book that lay in his lap was a volume of Shakespeare, open at the "Merchant of Venice." Something he had come across in that play had set him thinking.

The book had fallen on his knees, and he sat pondering till he had fallen asleep.

Yet even in his slumber the uneasy expression stayed upon his face, and now and then he moved uneasily in his chair.
What could there be to vex him?
Not poverty at all events, for not a year ago a relation, whom he had seldom seen, and of late years entirely lost sight of, had left him 5000L.