“I considered it unnecessary to tell you not to go, as you know, of course, the relations between Mr. Blair and myself are not cordial; and it never occurred to me that you would go off in this manner, in direct defiance of what you know must be my wishes.” “I asked Mr. Bulstrode, sir,” answered Lewis in a very soft, composed voice. “He told me he had no objection. It’s true he advised me to ask you; but Mr. Bulstrode is my guardian, and when I have his permission I don’t need anybody else’s, sir.” Lewis had in perfection Skelton’s trick of expressing the utmost defiance in the most moderate tone. There was nothing approaching insolence in his manner, but a perfect knowledge of his rights and a determination to stand upon them. Skelton was entirely at a loss for a moment or two. He had not the slightest means of enforcing obedience from the boy, except a threat of sending him away from Deerchase, and he suspected that was just what would have pleased Lewis best. But he spoke in a tone of stern command that he had never used towards the boy before. “Mr. Bulstrode seems to have had the right conception of the respect you owe me,” he said, after a pause, “but I find you did not heed his very rational advice. Now, understand me distinctly: I do not intend that you shall go to Newington, and I shall find means to enforce my wishes.” Lewis bowed and went out. He could not disregard anything so positive as that. But after Lewis had gone out and Skelton was left alone with his anger, he could not but feel proud of the boy’s spirit and independence, as well as his shrewdness in getting Bulstrode’s half permission. It was no ordinary boy that could coolly go against Skelton’s wishes and then so aptly justify himself. Skelton felt proud of Lewis’s spirit even when it was directed against himself. Hilary Blair did not get well at once--indeed, it looked at one time as if he would never get well at all. Then, there was an execution out against Blair, and, altogether, the affairs of the family seemed to be about as desperate as could be. Conyers need no longer preach sermons against horse racing. Jack Blair’s case was an object lesson that was worth all the sermons ever preached. Still Conyers felt it his duty to add warning to warning, and he gave his congregation another discourse against gambling and betting of all sorts that was received much more respectfully than the former one. Even old Tom Shapleigh forgot to scoff. It is true that remorse, or rather regret, had much to do with old Tom’s feelings. But for that unlucky horse, which he had so proudly exhibited to Blair, and that equally unlucky agreement to leave the matter to Sylvia, when Blair could always talk the women around, he would not have been minus a considerable sum of money. Sylvia herself endured all the distress that a tender and sensitive soul would suffer who had, however innocently, become a contributor to such a tragedy. “I wish I had poisoned the horse,” groaned old Tom.