The town was gone wild with feasting and dinners, and as the general liked his staff to attend him, I had more of these engagements than I cared about. Arthur, still weak and on parole, lingered; but why he did not get permission to go to New York, as had been easy, I could not well understand. In February, ‘82, I came home to my father’s one morning at an earlier hour than usual, and to my surprise heard my cousin’s voice. “I fear, sir, I am not understood. I came for the deed you promised me.” My poor father, a huge, wasted framework of a big man, was looking at him with lack-lustre eyes. He said, “My wife will be with us presently. Wilt thou stay for dinner?” I went in at once, saying, “I am more than amazed, sir, to see you here. As to the deed you would have stolen--” “What!” he cried. “I said ‘stolen,’ sir. As to the deed you would have stolen from a man too feeble in mind to guard his own property, I have only this to say” (amid constant duties it had gone from my mind): “I shall put no obstacle in the way of your seeing it.” “I have no other purpose,” he said quietly--“none. To you I could not go, and, sir, if you choose to consider my effort in any other light than an honest one, I have no more to say. We have enough causes of difference without that.” “Quite enough,” said I. I was beginning to lose grip of my patience. “Quite enough. That they were not settled long ago an accident alone prevented.” “I am not, sir, in a way fitly to answer you. Neither is this a place nor a presence for this discussion.” “At least we can agree as to that,” said I; “but I did not seek it. At my own leisure I shall have to ask you certain questions which, as a gentleman and a man of honour, you will find it hard to answer.” “I fail to comprehend,” he returned, with his grand air, looking all the better for his paleness. I said it was not now needful that he should, and that in future he would understand that he was no longer a welcome guest. “As you please,” he said. I thought he showed little anxiety to hear at length what was in my mind. Meanwhile, as we spoke, my father looked vacantly from me to him and from him to me, and at last, his old hospitable instincts coming uppermost, he said, “Thou hast not asked thy cousin to take spirits, Hugh.” Arthur, smiling sadly, as I thought, said: “Thank you, none for me. Good-day, Cousin Wynne,” and merely bowing to me, he went out, I ceremoniously opening the door.