Every father, thought Richard, who loved his children, ought to make them independent of himself, that neither clog, nor net, nor hindrance of any kind might hamper the true working of their consciences. Then would the service they rendered their parents be precious indeed! Then, indeed, would love be lord, and neither self, nor fear of man, nor fear of fate be a law in their life! He himself was independent—he could bind books and be content. How much harder it would be for a poor, tradeless man like Arthur Lestrange to make such a resolve! His father had trained him to do nothing, and therefore his dependence upon him was total.

He had not sent word to his grandfather that he was coming, and had told his father that he would walk from the station—which suited sir Wilton, for he felt nervous, and was anxious there should be no stir. So Richard came to Mortgrange as quietly as a star to its place in the twilight.

When he reached the gate and walked in as he had of old, he was challenged by the woman who kept it. Of all the servants, she and lady Ann’s maid had alone treated him with rudeness. Now she was not polite even though she did not recognize him. Neither was he recognized by the man who opened the door at the Hall. Many changes had passed upon him, for he was now twenty-five, and fully a man.

Sir Wilton was in the library waiting for him. A gentleman was with him, but he kept in the background, seemingly absorbed in the titles of a row of books.

“There you are, you rascal!” his father was on the point of saying as Richard came into the light of the one large window. Instead, he gazed at him for an instant in silence. Before him was one of the handsomest fellows his eyes had ever rested upon—broad-shouldered, tall, and straight, with a thoughtful yet keen face, every feature fine and solid, and dark brown hair with night and firelight in it, and a touch of the sun here and there at moments. The situation might have been embarrassing to a more experienced man than Richard, but he stood quite at ease, neither hands nor feet giving him any of the trouble so often caused by those outlying provinces. The slight colour that rose in his rather thin cheeks, only softened the beauty of a face whose outline was severe. He stood like a soldier waiting the word of his officer.

“By Jove!” said his father, and there was another pause.

The baronet was growing prouder of his son by the moment. He had never had a feeling like it before. He saw his mother in him.

“She’s looking at me straight out of his eyes!” he said to himself.