Eustace Thorburn, the nameless and fatherless, pitied this childless man. It was scarcely strange if he let the underwood grow wild in his park, and foul weeds lie thick upon his lake. For whom should he be careful, for whom should he adorn and beautify, for whose sake should he plant young trees, or cut new avenues in the woodland? For what purpose should he heap up riches, who knew not what strange hand was destined to gather them? But the secretary did not brood long on the sorrowful fate of that unknown Harold Jerningham. A fairer image came between him and the moonlit park, and it bore the likeness of Helen de Bergerac. “I waste my thoughts upon a girl’s lovely face, when I ought to be thinking of the work that lies before me,” the young man said to himself, in angry scorn of his weakness. “Let me remember why I am here, and keep my brain clear of my employer’s daughter, in order that I may be able to help him honestly with his book.” He slept soundly and sweetly, lulled by the faint rustling of the foliage and the far-away murmur of the river. But his slumbers were not dreamless. He thought he saw the old red-brick mansion all ablaze with light. Long rows of windows shone on the darkness of the night, joyous music was wafted from the open lattices, and an indistinguishable some one in a crowd, that seemed all confusion and clamour, told him the heir of Greenlands had come of age. He woke to see the sunshine in his room, and to hear Helen de Bergerac singing a waltz of Verdi’s; while the song-birds in the porch strained their melodious throats to the uttermost, in the endeavour to drown their mistress’s music. CHAPTER IX. HOW THEY PARTED.