But here he reckoned without George, for nothing less suited to the lad's disposition, tastes or early training could have been hit upon, and the one thing which kept him from open rebellion was his desire not to give pain to his mother. But when, quite suddenly, Mrs. Haughton died, George, who had been devoted to her--though he had a great admiration and love for his father, too--determined to resist the proposed change with all his might. He said little, however, until his twentieth birthday was passed, though his attitude was always one of firm, respectful opposition; and then at last the crisis came, and the blow struck by the hasty-tempered father in support of his authority broke down the last lingering scruple on the part of his son. It is difficult, all facts considered, to blame George too severely, even if his conduct in taking the law into his own hands cannot be entirely excused. 'You can't do better than come with me, George,' urged the wily Terence, when George had told him of the tempestuous scene at 'Sobraon,' as Colonel Haughton had named his house. 'You can't do better,' he repeated; 'that is, if you have made up your mind not to return home.' 'That is decided,' said George. 'To go back would only mean further hopeless bickering with my father, and I don't want to run any risks.' 'Then that is settled. You will have to lie low for a week or so until I am on the move again; but you can write to your father and let him know that you are safe. I dare say he will come round as soon as he sees that you are really in earnest. He is a good sort, is the colonel,' wound up Terence, with a grin at the recollection of a sound thrashing his old friend had once given him. 'He is, I admit,' granted the colonel's wayward son. 'All the same, he won't come round easily. He would wear out my will by sheer persistence and get his own way if I remained in the house. My only safety lies in flight.' 'I believe you. And you will fly with me to the bush.' 'No, Terence; I have another plan.' And straightway George delivered himself of a statement which astonished his voluble friend into something like absolute silence. But this did not last very long. For a few moments Terence remained pensive, his thoughts evidently far away; then, as they turned to take the homeward road he astonished George in his turn by cutting a caper in the middle of the street. 'Hurroo!' he cried, relapsing into the rich brogue he could assume at pleasure, and poured out a torrent of strange sounds, which George declared to be gibberish, but which Terence insisted were 'the rale Oirish for unbounded deloight.' 'But what is the matter with you?' George asked helplessly at last. 'Why should you behave like a lunatic because I am going away?' 'Because _we_ are going, if you please,' corrected Terence, suddenly serious. George stared at him. 'You don't mean that you are coming, too?'