“I did indeed. I remember her first as a sweet slip of a girl, playing and romping about the house and grounds. Then I missed her for three or four years while she was away at school. Then she came back, a sedate young lady, but very, very pretty. How fond your grandfather was of her! But he never forgave her for running away and marrying your father—never, that is, until he lay dying.” “Do you mean to say, sir, that my grandfather ever did forgive my mother?” “Certainly he forgave her, but not till he lay on his deathbed. I was in the room at the time and heard his words. Taking your uncle’s hand in his, your grandfather said—and his words came very slowly and feebly:—‘Arthur, life and its duties look very different, as I lie here, from what they did when I was in health. It lies on my conscience that I never forgave poor Dorothy. It’s too late to send for her now, but send her my blessing after I’m gone, and say that I loved her to the last.’ He shut his eyes, and was silent for a little while. Then he spoke again. ‘Arthur,’ he said to your uncle, ‘is it your intention ever to marry?’ ‘I shall never marry, father,’ was the answer. ‘Then who’s to have Park Newton, after your time?’ ‘It will not go out of the family, you may depend upon that, father,’ said your uncle. ‘Some time or other it will have to go to one of the two boys,’ resumed your grandfather; ‘either to Dorothy’s boy, or to Geoffry’s son, Kester. Now I don’t want to tie you down in any way, Arthur, but I confess I should like Dorothy’s lad to have Park Newton. He could change his name to St. George, you know. Young Kester might have a life allowance out of the estate of two or three thousand a year, and there would still be enough left to keep up the old place in proper style. I feel that I have acted wrongly to Dorothy. There is some reparation due to her. If I thought that her boy would one day have the estate, I think I should die happier.’ ‘Father, it shall be as you wish,’ said Arthur St. George, solemnly.” “A promise that was made only to be broken,” said Lionel, bitterly. “I have heard my mother say that the first intimation she had of my grandfather’s death was derived from the columns of a newspaper. Further than that, my uncle Arthur never wrote a single line to my mother; never would even see her; never hold any communication with her, direct or indirect, to the last day of her life.” “You shock me,” said the old clergyman. “Can that indeed be true?” “I tell you, sir,” said Lionel, “that this is the first time I ever heard of any such wish having been expressed by my grandfather. Two months ago I had no more expectation than you had of ever coming into the Park Newton property. My cousin Kester was always looked upon as the heir.” “He was, greatly to my surprise, knowing what I knew. Your uncle adopted him and brought him up as his own son.”