"I am convinced," continued Lucian, with the same unmoved voice and face, "that I acted rightly. So we'll say no more about it. What have you been about? The mother says you're writing a poem." "Yes," said Sylvester; "will you read it?" "I'll _buy_ it," said Lucian, gravely; "and, yes, I'll read it, if you like, as it's yours. I hope you'll make Tennyson take a back seat." "Thank you," said Sylvester, laughing. "I'll be content to hang on behind his coach. But of course I'm rather full of it. I've had several things in reviews and magazines, and some men, whose word is worth something, like them. But it's all luck. The public's harder to hit than a tiger, Lucy." "I hope it won't turn and rend you. Well, it's jolly to see you again, after all. Come in, I've got some curiosities for you--art objects, don't you call them?--to adorn your rooms at Cuthbert's." "Thanks. And then come down and see Aunt Meg and the governor. They'll be delighted." If Lucian had not known Sylvester from babyhood, he would have had little in common with him; but, as it was, whatever he had to say, he said to Sylvester; he took all his alien tastes for granted, and never supposed it possible to be so intimate with any one else. Absence, probably, neither made his heart grow fonder, nor the reverse; he would have given and expected exactly the same amount of regard, after an absence of five-and-twenty years instead of two. Sylvester had other friends, and his notion of sympathetic intercourse included more than this, but he had a brotherly regard for "Miss Lucy," as the pretty-faced, but manly little boy had been called in his early school-days, and liked his company. Lucian now took him into the house, and bestowed various Indian valuables on him, stating where and when they had been bought on purpose for him, and giving him many distinct pictures of places and people; for he was very observant, and had an accurate memory. Then, as they walked down together to the Rectory, he asked after old friends, and neighbours, till they turned into the Rectory drive, opposite which, half open, were the great iron gates of Cleverley Hall. "There's Aunt Meg," said Sylvester. "Who's that girl?--Good heavens," as Lucian suddenly stopped, and held him back; for there, not fifty feet from them, in the act of parting from Miss Riddell, stood Amethyst Haredale. Retreat was for her impossible. As she turned and saw them, Lucian, without an instant's pause, raised his hat, turned and went off up a side path into the garden. Sylvester moved forward, blushing and confused, but with an eager light in his eyes. She came straight on towards him, stopped, and held out her hand. "How do you do, Mr Riddell?" she said, in soft gracious tones, like Lady Haredale's own. "I have come down for a few hours on business for my mother, and I came to see Miss Riddell. I am hurrying now to catch the London train. Good-bye."