It was generally agreed that there was a mystery about the boy, and, for no better reason than this, his existence was ignored by the county gentry, who paid formal visits to Deerchase, but who did not take their sons with them if they happened to have boys of Lewis’s age. Sylvia saw him every day--sailing his boat on the river, fishing sometimes, or lying down under the trees with his dog--always alone. Once or twice she met him in the road and stopped and talked with him. The boy was won by her grace and charming manners, and admired her shyly while answering her questions, with his black eyes fixed on the ground. After meeting her two or three times he grew bolder, and actually one day left at Belfield a bouquet of golden rod, with his compliments scrawled in a large, boyish hand on a card. Mrs. Shapleigh, passing through the hall as Lewis, blushing very much, handed the bouquet in, seized upon it and carried it off in triumph to Sylvia. “Just look, my dear! No doubt it came from Richard Skelton, poor fellow! He is just eating his heart out because he can’t ask you to marry him, but still he likes to pay you these delicate attentions. Wild flowers, too--so much sentiment!” “Mamma,” said Sylvia sharply, “please be reasonable. Look at this: they are from Lewis Pryor, that black-eyed boy that is Mr. Bulstrode’s ward.” “And not from Richard Skelton! Dear, dear! Do throw the things out, Sylvia; they are not worth houseroom. And, my dear, there is some mystery about that boy, and you’d better not have anything to do with him.” “Poor little Lewis! The only mystery that I see about him is that he is young and lonely and wants friends. I never saw a more winning boy in my life.” Something in the gift touched Sylvia. She realised, with a smile, that Lewis had probably endured agonies of bashfulness before and after sending his bouquet. She wrote him a pretty little note, and sealed it with a motto such as was the fashion in those days. Bob Skinny presented the note that night at the dinner table to Lewis with a great flourish. “Miss Sylvia Shapleigh, sah, sont you dis heah billy-doo.” Bob Skinny had not been to Paris for nothing, and interlarded his conversation with such scraps of French as he could muster. Lewis, turning very red under Skelton’s eye, opened the note and read it, afterwards putting it into his pocket with studied carelessness. Glancing up, he saw Skelton’s gaze, usually so serious, fixed, half laughingly, upon him. “You have the advantage of me, Lewis,” said Skelton, smiling; “I have never been honoured with a note from Miss Shapleigh.” “Perhaps, sir,” answered Lewis, after a pause, “you never sent Miss Shapleigh any flowers.” Skelton was secretly delighted with the aptness of the boy’s reply, and remarked pleasantly: “That is true. You seem, however, to have got the start of me in that respect too.”