He was his father’s pet, for he never thwarted his parent in any of his whims and fancies; indeed it might be said that he was obedient and yielding to a fault. Lord Ethalwood could not conceal from himself that this young man had a hectic flush at times, and showed decided symptoms of weakness, or it might be of early decay, and he was seriously concerned when the family physician informed him that his second son required the greatest possible care. His lordship trembled at the thought of losing one who was so endeared to him, and he could not bear him out of his sight; he was therefore his constant companion, either at Broxbridge or his town residence. Reginald took great delight in athletic sports, was a member of a yachting club, was a daring rider, and attended most meets in the county and elsewhere. His father did not much concern himself about him, leaving him to do pretty much as he liked; for he used to say, with a smile, that Reginald was strong enough for anything, and was well able to take care of himself. Judge of his horror, however, when, one afternoon, he received the sad intelligence that his son, Reginald, had been thrown from his horse while following the hounds in a distant part of the country; and that when picked up the young man was found to be dead. His neck was broken, and he never moved after the fall. This blow fell with a deadening weight upon the miserable and despairing father. He could not at first realise it, and it was not until he saw the body of his dead son that he could be brought to believe in the irreparable loss he had sustained. There were people who at this time, and indeed afterwards, said that he was justly punished for his indomitable pride; and many averred that he had brought most of the troubles on himself. Such is the charitable construction some people put upon the misfortunes of others. But the cup of his sorrow was not yet full. [Sidenote: No. 13.] [Illustration: THE LAST LOOK AT JOHN BRISTOW.] A terrible change came over the unhappy and ill-fated nobleman about this time. Long years of toil could not have aged him as his sorrow did. His hair grew white, his face became livid, his eyes lost their wonted fire; and albeit he bore himself bravely under the deep affliction which had fallen upon him, it was easy to see that he was no longer the same man. A shadow had fallen upon him and his, and he was constrained to suffer in silence. Reginald was interred in the family vault. A noble scion of the house of Ethalwood was gathered to his fathers with all the pomp and ceremony usually accorded to the illustrious dead. His only remaining son, Herbert, was now his father’s chief, and indeed it might be said only, care. He had no other prop for his declining years, no other to look to as the direct inheritor of his title and estates. His anxiety about his son, Herbert, was almost pitiful to witness; he was for ever by his side, watching with a jealous care.