“Possibly; at all events he worried his stepmother into hysterics by coming there one day in winter, and demanding first the deed or will, and second his sister, whom he said his father gave to his charge. But I settled him!” “Yes?” the doctor said, interrogatively, and Everard continued: “Father was gone, and this wretch, who must have been in liquor, was bullying my mother, and declaring he would go to the room where Mrs. Hastings was fainting for fear of him, when I came in from riding, and just bade him begone; and when he said to me sneeringly, ‘Oh, little David, what do you think you can do with the giant, you have no sling?’ I hit him a cut with my riding-whip which made him wince with pain, and I followed up the blows till he left the house vowing vengeance on me for the insult offered him.” “And since then?” the doctor asked. “Since then I have never seen him. After Mrs. Hastings died he wrote an impertinent letter to father asking the guardianship of his sister, but we had promised her mother solemnly never to let her fall into his hands or under his influence, and father wrote him such a letter as settled him; at least, we have never heard from him since, and that is eight years ago. Nor should I know him either, for it was dark, and he all muffled up.” “And have you no fear of him, that he may yet be revenged? People like him do not usually take cowhidings quietly,” the doctor asked. “No, I’ve no fear of him, for what can he do to me? Besides, I should not wonder if he were dead. We have never heard of him since that letter to father,” was Everard’s reply, and after a moment his companion continued: “And this girl,—is she pretty and bright, and how old is she now?” “Rossie must be thirteen,” Everard said, “and the very nicest girl in the world, but as to being pretty, she is too thin for that, though she has splendid eyes, large and brilliant, and black as midnight, and what is peculiar for such eyes, her hair, which ripples all over her head, is a rich chestnut brown, with a tinge of gold upon it when seen in the sunlight. Her hair is her great beauty, and I should not be surprised if she grew to be quite a handsome woman.” “Very likely;—excuse me, Mr. Forrest,” and the doctor spoke respectfully, nay, deferentially, “excuse me if I appear too familiar. We have talked together so freely that you do not seem a stranger, and friendships, you know, are not always measured by time.” Everard bowed, and, foolish boy that he was, felt flattered by this giant of a man, who went on: “Possibly this little Rossie may some day be the daughter of the house in earnest.” “What do you mean? that my father will adopt her regularly?” Everard asked, as he lifted his clear, honest eyes inquiringly to the face of his companion, who, finding that in dealing with a frank, open nature like Everard’s he must speak out plain, replied: “I mean, perhaps you will marry her.”