But Helen would not hear of this. She was obstinate, all but fierce, on the subject. No argument would convince her that it was not safer for her son, who had been brought up in such Arcadian simplicity, to continue believing himself what he appeared to be, than to be dazzled by the knowledge that he was the chosen heir of the Earl of Cairnforth. So, somewhat against his judgment, the earl yielded. All winter and spring things went on peacefully in the little peninsula, which was now being grasped tightly by the strong arm of encroaching civilization. Acre after acre of moorland disappeared, and became houses, gardens, green-houses, the feu-rents of which made the estate of Cairnforth more valuable every year. "That young man of yours will have enough on his hands one day," the earl said to Helen. "He lives an easy life now, and little thinks what hard work he is coming to. As Mr. Menteith once told me, the owner of Cairnforth has no sinecure, nor will have for the next quarter of a century." "You expect a busy life, then?" "Yes; and I must have that boy to help me--till he comes to his own. But, Helen, after that time, you must not let him be idle. The richest man should work, if he can. I wonder what line of work Cardross will take; whether he will attempt politics--his letters are very political just now, do you notice?" "Very. And there is not half enough about himself." "He might get into Parliament," continued the earl, "and perhaps some day win a peerage in his own right. Eh, Helen? Would you like to be mother to a viscount--Viscount Cairnforth?" "No," said Helen, tenderly, "there shall never be another Lord Cairnforth." Thus sat these two, planning by the hour together the future of the boy who was their one delight. It amused them through all the winter and spring, till Cairnforth woods grew green again, and Loch Beg recovered its smile of sunshiny peace, and the hills at the head of it took their summer colors, lovely and calm, even as, year after year, these friends had watched them throughout their two lives, of which both were now keenly beginning to feel the greater part lay, not before them, but behind. But in thinking of this boy they felt young again, as if he brought to one the hope, to the other the faint recollection of happiness that in the great mystery of Providence to each had been personally denied. And yet they were not unhappy. Helen was not. No one could look into her face--strongly marked, but rosy-complexioned, health, and comely --the sort of large comeliness which belongs to her peculiar type of Scotch women, especially in their middle age--without seeing that life was to her not only duty, but enjoyment--ay, in spite of the widow's cap, which marked her out as one who permanently belonged and meant to belong only to her son.