The boy slipped down till he rested on his elbow once more. “There is not much I can tell,” he began, but his face was eager with interest in the old story. “I remember little of those times, but my mother was ever telling me of him. His name was Alan Gwyeth; ’tis a Welsh name, and he had Welsh blood in him. They put him to school, but he ran away to follow the wars in the Low Countries. Later he was here in Warwickshire to raise men who’d adventure for the German wars, and he met my mother, and they loved each other, so they married. My grandfather and Uncle Nathaniel did not like my father, so he left the kingdom straightway, and she went with him on his campaigns in Germany. I was born there; I think I can remember it, just a bit. A porcelain stove with tiles, and the story of Moses upon them; and a woman with flaxen hair who took care of me; and my father, I am sure I remember him, a very tall man with reddish hair and blue eyes, who carried me on his shoulder.” Hugh’s look strayed beyond the girl and he was silent a time. “Then it all ended and we came home to England. I remember the ship and I was sick; and then the great coach we rode in from Bristol; and how big Everscombe looked and lonesome, and my mother cried.” “And—and your father?” Lois asked timidly. “He died,” Hugh answered softly. “My mother never told me how, but it must have been in battle, for he was a very brave soldier, she said. And he was the tenderest and kindest man that ever lived, and far too good for her, she said, but I do not believe that. And just before she died she told me I must try always to be like him, a true-hearted gentleman and a gallant soldier.—I am glad I look like him, and then, sometimes,” Hugh’s tone grew more dubious, “but usually ’tis when I have done wrong, Aunt Delia says I am my father over again.” “Aunt Delia has a sharp tongue,” said Lois with a sigh. “I know it well,” Hugh answered ruefully. “But still, she has a kind heart,” the girl was amending charitably, when from across the orchard came a shrill call of “Hugh,” which ended in a high-pitched howl. Lois rose and peering under her hand gazed out into the sunlight of the level grass beyond the apple trees. “’Tis Sam Oldesworth,” she said, and as she spoke a boy of thirteen or fourteen years broke headlong into the shade of the orchard. “Where have you been, Hugh?” he panted. “Have you my ball safe? I’ve looked everywhere for you.” “For the ball? There ’tis,” Hugh replied. “Nay, not for that. There’s something up at the house for you.” “What is it?” Hugh came to his feet at a jump, while his thoughts sped bewilderingly to swords, horses, and commissions. “Guess,” replied Sam.