Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.
It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the Dovecote.

The front door usually stood hospitably open.

Now it was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps.
The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest.

Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.
"I'm afraid something has happened.

Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs.Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.
Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr.Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face.