home he was destined to know; for Alfred was unable to settle down in any place for any length of time. While his wife and her father were alive, their influence over him was supreme: he was like the needle drawn aside by a powerful attraction. But now that they were gone, his thoughts oscillated awhile, and then reverted to Brackenhill. For himself he was content; he had made his choice long ago; but little by little the idea grew up in his mind that Percival was wronged, for he, at least, was guiltless. He secretly regretted the defiant fashion in which his boy had been christened, and made a feeble attempt to prove that, after all, Percy was an old family name. He succeeded in establishing that a "P. Thorne" had once existed, who, of course, might have been Percy as he might have been Peter or Paul; and he tried to call his son Percy, in memory of this doubtful namesake. But the three syllables were as dear to the boy as the White Flag to a Bourbon. They identified him with the mother he dimly remembered, and proclaimed to all the world (that is, to his grandfather) that for her sake he counted Brackenhill well lost. He triumphed, and his father was proud to be defeated. To this day he invariably writes himself "Percival Thorne."

none.

Alfred, however, had his way on a more important point, and educated his son for no profession, because the head of the house needed Percival acquiesced willingly enough, without a thought of the implied protest. He was indolent, and had little or no ambition. Since daily bread-and, luckily, rather more than daily bread, for he was no ascetic-was secured to him, since books were many, and the world was wide, he asked nothing better than to study them. He grew up grave, dreamy, and somewhat solitary in his ways. He seemed to have inherited something of the Rector's self-possessed and rather formal courtesy, and at twenty he looked older than his age, though his face was as smooth as a girl's.

He was not twenty-one when his father died suddenly of fever. When the news reached Brackenhill, the old Squire was singularly affected by it. He had been accustomed to contrast Alfred's vigorous prime with his own advanced age, Percival's unbroken health with Horace's ailing boyhood, and to think mournfully of the probability that the old manorhouse must go to a stranger unless he could humble himself to the son who had defied him. But, old as he was, he had outlived his son, and he was dismayed at his isolation. A whole generation was dead and gone; and the two lads, who were all that remained of the Thornes of Brackenhill, stood far away, as though he stretched his trembling hands to them across their fathers' graves. He expressly requested that Percival should come and see him, and the young man presented himself in his deep mourning. Sissy, just sixteen, looked upon him as a sombre hero of romance, and, within two days of his coming, Mrs. Middleton announced that her brother was "perfectly infatuated about that boy."

The evening of his arrival he stood with his grandfather on the terrace, looking at the wide prospect which lay at their feet-ample fields

and meadows, and the silvery flash of water through the willows. Then he turned, folded his arms, and coolly surveyed Brackenhill itself from end to end. Mr. Thorne watched him, expecting some word; but when none came, and Percival's eyes wandered upwards to the soft evening sky, where a glimmering star hung like a lamp above the old grey manorhouse, he said, with some amusement

"Well, and what is your opinion?"

Percival came down to earth with the greatest promptitude.

"It's a beautiful place. I'm glad to see it. I like looking over old houses."

"Like looking over old houses? As if it were merely a show! Isn't Brackenhill more to you than any other old house?" demanded Mr. Thorne.

"Oh well, perhaps," Percival allowed; "I have heard my father talk of it, of course."

"Come, come! You are not such an outsider as all that," said his grandfather.

The young man smiled a little, but did not speak.

"You don't forget you are a Thorne, I hope," the other went on. "There are none too many of us."

"No," said Percival. "I like the old house, and I can assure you, sir, that I am proud of both my names."

"Well, well; very good names. But shouldn't you call a man a lucky fellow if he owned a place like this?"

"My opinion wouldn't be half as well worth having as yours," was the reply. "What do you call yourself, sir?"

"Do you think I own this place?" Mr. Thorne inquired.

"Why, yes; I always supposed so. Don't you?"

"No, I don't!" The answer was almost a snarl. "I'm bailiff, overlooker, anything you like to call it. My master is at Oxford, at Christ Church. He won't read, and he can't row, so he is devoting his time to learning how to get rid of the money I am to save up for him. I own Brackenhill?" He faced abruptly round. "All that timber is mine, they say. And if I cut down a stick your Aunt Middleton is at me— 'think of Horace.' The place was mortgaged when I came into it. I pinched and saved-I freed it-for Horace. Why shouldn't I mortgage it again if I please; raise money and live royally till my time comes, eh? . They'd all be at me, dinning 'Horace, Horace,' and my duty to those who come after me, into my ears. Look at the drawing-room furniture!"

"The prettiest old room I ever saw," said Percival.

"Ah! you're right there. But my sister doesn't think so. It's shabby, she would tell you. But does she ask me to furnish it for her? No, no, it isn't worth while; mine is such a short lease. When Horace marries and comes into his inheritance of course it must be done up. It would be a pity to waste money about it now, especially as there's a bit

of land lies between two farms of mine, and if I don't go spending a lot in follies, I can buy it-think of that! I can buy it-for Horace!"

Percival was guarded in his replies to this and similar outbursts; and Mrs. Middleton, seeing that he showed no disposition to toady his grandfather, or to depreciate Horace, told Godfrey Hammond that, though her brother was so absurd about him, she thought he seemed a good sort of young man after all. "Time will show," was the answer. Now this was depressing, for Godfrey had established a reputation for great sagacity.