“Have back this letter of yours,” Master Oldesworth said, rising, and as Hugh came up to him he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You have a loyal heart, Hugh Gwyeth,” he said dryly, “and ’tis no shame of yours you have such a father.” “I am not ashamed of him, sir,” Hugh replied stoutly. “You are your mother over again,” said the old man, in a tone that held something of vexation and something of amusement, yet more of kindliness than he was accustomed to show his orphan grandson. Hugh was in no mood to note this, however, but, delaying only to take his precious letter, left the east parlor at a brisk step that verged upon a run. Once in the open air, where he was freed from the restraint of his grandfather’s presence, he leaped down the low terrace and, hallooing at the top of his lungs, raced full speed across the lawn. But when the shadow of the tall oaks on the border of the park fell upon him the noisiness of his joy somewhat abated. He rambled on more slowly with a happy under-consciousness of the dusky green of the old trees about him and the shimmer of the stray sunbeams; he wondered that the dull, familiar park seemed so joyous and beautiful a place. Not till he had crossed the grassy roadway that led to the manor house, and plunged into the thicker growth of trees, did he come again to the power of framing connected thoughts. Little by little he let his pace slacken, till at length he flung himself down in the shade of a beech tree and pulling out Frank’s letter read the last sentences aloud. His father was alive, an officer in the king’s army, at Nottingham, only the width of two counties away. Hugh clasped his hands behind his head and lying back gazed up unwinkingly at the cloudless blue sky; in his heart there was no room for any feeling save that of pure happiness, of which the bright day seemed a mere reflection. For he neither remembered nor heeded the words his grandfather had spoken of Alan Gwyeth; he only knew that a few score miles away the tall man with reddish hair and blue eyes, who used to carry him upon his shoulder, was alive and waiting for him. The resolve formed in these hours of reflection he told to Lois Campion, when, late in the afternoon, he crashed his way out to the edge of the park with the briskness of one who has made up his mind. The girl was playing at shuttlecock with Martha Oldesworth, but at sight of Hugh she quickly laid aside her battledoor and came to him where he was lingering for her beneath the oaks. “Where have you been?” she cried. “We missed you at dinner, and Peregrine, who was honey-tongued as ever, said you were sulking. But I knew ’twas some witchery in that letter.” Hugh laughed excitedly. “Witchery? Ay, ’twas that indeed, Lois. Can you believe it? My father is alive, at the king’s camp; and I have determined to go to him.”