at his solitary hearth, and the thought was hateful to him. He realised well enough that only a woman in a thousand could make him happy, but Sylvia Shapleigh, he began to feel, was the woman. And, considering the extreme affection he felt for Lewis, it was not unlikely--here Skelton laughed to himself--that he was by nature a domestic character. He began to fancy life at Deerchase with Sylvia, and became quite fascinated with the picture drawn by his own imagination. She was a woman well calculated to gratify any man’s pride, and deep down in his own heart Skelton knew that was the great thing with him. And she had a heart--in fact, Skelton would have been a little afraid of a creature with so much feeling if she had not had likewise a fine understanding. And if that one boy of his gave him such intense happiness, even with all the wrath and humiliation that had been brought upon him thereby, what could he not feel for other children in whose existence there was no shame? And then, the thought of a lonely and unloved old age became doubly hateful to him. Until lately he had not really been able to persuade himself that he must bear the common fate; that he, Richard Skelton, must some day grow old, infirm, dependent. Seeing, though, that youth had departed in spite of him, he began to fear that old age might, after all, come upon him. But growing old soothed by Sylvia’s charming companionship and tender ministrations, and with new ties, new emotions, new pleasures, was not terrifying to him. He revolved these things in his mind, occasionally looking fondly at the sleeping boy, who was indeed all that Skelton said he was. Skelton had no idea of falling asleep, but gradually a delicious languor stole on him. How merrily the blackbirds were singing outside, and the sparrows chirped and chattered under the eaves! Afar off he heard in the stillness of the summer morning the tinkling of the bells as the cows were being driven to the pasture, then all the sweet country sounds melted away into golden silence, and he slept. CHAPTER XVII. It was well on towards twelve o’clock before either Skelton or Lewis awaked. The candles had long since burnt out, and the great, square, sombre room was quite dark. Since the early morning the sky had become overcast, and a steady, cold rain was falling outside. The penetrating damp air chilled Skelton to the bone, and he waked with an uncomfortable start. At the very same instant, Lewis, lying on the sofa, also roused, and both pairs of eyes, so strangely alike, were fixed on each other. Skelton was still under the spell of that burst of parental passion that had overcome him the night before. His sleep had been full of dreams of the boy, and when he waked and saw Lewis’s black eyes gazing with sleepy wonder into his own, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.