'I was prompted by common justice and humanity,' said Louis. 'My protection was claimed for the poor boy, as the son of an old servant of ours.' 'Indeed! I think you must have been imposed on. Mr. Calcott spoke of the family as notorious poachers.' 'Find a poor fellow on the wrong side of a hedge, and not a squire but will swear that he is a hardened ruffian!' 'Usually with reason,' said the Earl. 'Pray when did this person's parents allege that they had been in my service?' 'It was his mother. Her name was Blackett, and she left us on her marriage with one of the Hodgekins.' Lord Ormersfield rang the bell, and Frampton, the butler and confidential servant, formed on his own model, made his appearance. 'Do you know whether a woman of the name of Blackett ever lived in service here?' 'Not that I am aware of, my Lord. I will ascertain the fact.' In a few moments Frampton returned. 'Yes, my Lord, a girl named Blackett was once engaged to help in the scullery, but was discharged for dishonesty at the end of a month.' 'Did not Frampton know that that related to me?' said Louis, sotto voce, to his aunt. 'Did he not trust that he was reducing me from a sea anemone to a lump of quaking jelly?' So far from this consummation, Lord Fitzjocelyn looked as triumphant as Don Quixote liberating Gines de Pasamonte. He and his father might have sat for illustrations of 'Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care,' as they occupied the two ends of the dinner-table; the Earl concealing anxiety and vexation, under more than ordinary punctilious politeness; the Viscount doing his share of the honours with easy, winning grace and attention, and rattling on in an under-tone of lively conversation with Aunt Catharine. Mary was silently amazed at her encouraging him; but perhaps she could not help spoiling him the more, because there was a storm impending. At least, as soon as she was in the drawing-room, she became restless and nervous, and said that she wished his father could see that speaking sternly to him never did any good; besides, it was mere inconsiderateness, the excess of chivalrous compassion. Mrs. Ponsonby said she thought young men's ardour more apt to be against than for the poacher. 'I must confess,' said Aunt Catherine, with all the reluctance of a high-spirited Dynevor,--'I must confess that Louis is no sportsman! He was eager about it once, till he had become a good shot; and then it lost all zest for him, and he prefers his own vagaries. He never takes a gun unless James drives him out; and, oddly enough, his father is quite vexed at his indifference, as if it were not manly. If his father would only understand him!'