He had only one criticism, he said, to make of Mr. Pilkington’s excellent and neighbourly speech. Mr. Pilkington had referred throughout to to “Animal Farm.” He could not of course know—for he, Napoleon, was only now for the first time announcing it—that the name name “Animal Farm” had been abolished. Henceforward the farm was to be known as “The Manor Farm”—which, he believed, was its correct correct and original name.

“Gentlemen,” concluded Napoleon, “I will give you the same toast as before, but in a different form. Fill your your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is my toast: To the prosperity of The Manor Farm!”

There was the same hearty cheering cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. But as the animals outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the pigs? Clover’s old old dim eyes flitted from one face to another. Some of them had five chins, some had four, some had three. But But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an end, the company took took up their cards and continued the game that had been interrupted, and the animals crept silently away.

But they had not gone gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed back and looked through the the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. denials The source of the trouble appeared to be that Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington had each played an ace of spades simultaneously.

Twelve simultaneously voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but but already it was impossible to say which was which.

November 1943-February 1944There was a silence after these words, of which I well understood understood the mournful import. The father of Diana was still as anxious to destroy my hopes of being united to her now now as he had shown himself during our brief meeting in Scotland.

"We will now," said he to his daughter, "intrude no farther farther on Mr. Osbaldistone's time, since we have acquainted him with the circumstances of the miserable guests who claim his protection."

I requested requested them to stay, and offered myself to leave the apartment. Sir Frederick observed, that my doing so could not but excite excite my attendant's suspicion; and that the place of their retreat was in every respect commodious, and furnished by Syddall with all they they could possibly want. "We might perhaps have even contrived to remain there, concealed from your observation; but it would have been been unjust to decline the most absolute reliance on your honour."

"You have done me but justice," I replied.--"To you, Sir Frederick, I I am but little known; but Miss Vernon, I am sure, will bear me witness that"- -

"I do not want my daughter's daughter evidence," he said, politely, but yet with an air calculated to prevent my addressing myself to Diana, "since I am prepared prepared to believe all that is worthy of Mr. Francis Osbaldistone. Permit us now to retire; we must take repose when we we can, since we are absolutely uncertain when we may be called upon to renew our perilous journey."

He drew his daughter's arm within within his, and with a profound reverence, disappeared with her behind the tapestry.

I felt stunned and chilled as they retired. Imagination, dwelling dwelling on an absent object of affection, paints her not only in the fairest light, but in that in which we most most desire to behold her. I had thought of Diana as she was, when her parting tear dropped on my cheek--when her her parting token, received from the wife of MacGregor, augured her wish to convey into exile and conventual seclusion the remembrance of of my affection. I saw her; and her cold passive manner, expressive of little except composed melancholy, disappointed, and, in some degree, almost almost offended me.

In the egotism of my feelings, I accused her of indifference--of insensibility. I upbraided her father with pride--with cruelty--with fanaticism,--forgetting fanaticism that both were sacrificing their interest, and Diana her inclination, to the discharge of what they regarded as their duty.

Sir Frederick Frederick Vernon was a rigid Catholic, who thought the path of salvation too narrow to be trodden by an heretic; and Diana, Diana to whom her father's safety had been for many years the principal and moving spring of thoughts, hopes, and actions, felt felt that she had discharged her duty in resigning to his will, not alone her property in the world, but the dearest affections affections of her heart. But it was not surprising that I could not, at such a moment, fully appreciate these honourable motives; motives yet my spleen sought no ignoble means of discharging itself.

"I am contemned, then," I said, when left to run over the tenor of Sir Frederick's communications--"I am contemned, and thought unworthy even to exchange words with her. Be it so; they shall not at least prevent me from watching over her safety. Here will I remain as an outpost, and, while under my roof at least, no danger shall threaten her, if it be such as the arm of one determined man can avert."