It had never troubled me that I had no friends of my own age. Indeed, I never had need of any, for when I had finished for the day with Mr. Cox, or on holidays--which came not unfrequently--my father was always ready to do anything I desired; and what better companion could I have had? He was a better shot and a far better fencer than I, and, at a distance, no one would have taken him for more than my elder brother. He was over six feet in height, and as slim and upright as a dart. His slight moustaches and hair were, indeed, grey, but they were the only signs of age, save, perhaps a weary, troubled look which sometimes came into his face and dwelt there for days. But a good hand-gallop or an hour or two shooting from a boat round the coombe, used generally to drive that away; and then his blue eyes would flash as eagerly and his interest in the sport would be as strong as ever mine was. But, though we were out in all weathers, sometimes for the whole day together, it seemed as though neither sun nor wind could do more than very slightly tan his clear, delicate skin; and his hands, although they were as tenacious and strong as a bargeman's, remained almost as white and shapely as a lady's. I used to think him the handsomest man in the world, and I have certainly never seen a handsomer. To be told that I was growing like him was to make me supremely happy--and people often told me so in those days. No wonder that I grew to love him with more even than an ordinary filial love. The ties between us were so various, that it would have been strange had it not been so. To the love of a son for his father, was added the love which springs from constant companionship whilst engaged with kindred tastes in following a common object. My mother, too, claimed a large share of my affection, and so did Marian, my sister. But neither of them came anywhere near him in my heart. I was not of a speculative nature, but gradually it had begun to dawn upon me that we were somehow different from other people--that there must be some reason for the absolute and unbroken solitude in which we lived, and the events of the last two days had now made this certain. "The boy must be told." What was it that I must be told? I had thought that I should have known this very evening, for just as I was going to bed my father had called me to him. "Hugh," he had said kindly, "you were saying something last night about never having been away from this place. You were quite right. You must not live here always. There has been a reason, a very grave reason, for our having lived here so long and in such solitude. You must be told that reason." I could see that he was agitated, and a vague yet strong sense of trouble filled me. "Do not tell me now, father," I cried; "do not tell me at all if it distresses you. I will ask no more questions. I will be content to live on here always as we are doing now." He shook his head slowly.