"Blue were their eyes as the fairy-flax, Their cheeks like the dawn of day." Longfellow. A soft rather shaky sort of tap at the door. It does not all at once reach the rather deaf ears of the little old lady and tall, still older gentleman who are seated in their usual arm-chairs, one with his newspaper by the window, the other with her netting by the fire, in the exceedingly neat-neat, indeed, is no word for it-"parlour" of Arbitt Lodge. In what part of the country this queerly-named house was-is still, perhaps-to be found there is no particular reason for telling; whence came this same queer name will be told in good time.