Within was a simply-furnished hall, arranged with simplest taste. Bowls of roses stood upon the tables, and the windows, in the recesses formed by the window seats, were open, admitting straggling stems of flowers that clustered upward from below. Built in the wall was a golden fluted organ, the ivory keyboard open, and all the mystic stops clear to the view. Rosalie knocked. A door at the farther end of the house opened, and a youth appeared, coming toward her. He was so handsome, and walked with such grace and youthful brightness, that Rosalie’s heart went out toward him on the instant. He did not wait for any word of explanation, but said: “My father will be very pleased to see you. We have been expecting your arrival for almost a week.” “But where did I come from?” asked Rosalie, as taken with his gentle way of speaking as his appearance. He laughed. “I don’t know; but from a hot place and a great distance, I should think, or else your wits would never have been sharpened to take so long a journey.” “I wonder how old he is?” thought she. “Fourteen at the most. He should have more respect for me than to speak so—so freely; and yet it’s nice to be spoken to quite humanly again.” “Yes,” she answered; “I’ve come a very long distance.” “Come this way. See my father, and then you may rest.” He took her to a room furnished simply, and not unlike that of Mr. Barringcourt’s; and there, seated at the table, occupied much as he had been in studying, writing, and arranging papers, was the father of the boy. His hair was very white, as white as silver, and his face was beautiful and clearly cut. He had an appearance of great age, and his tall figure was thin and muscular. In some indescribable way he reminded Rosalie of Mr. Barringcourt. A vague fear began to spring in her mind—for in his dress and manner there was something strangely reminiscent, even though he looked so very old, with his lined face and silver hair. But he used what Mr. Barringcourt had never used, and that was a pair of glasses; and his glance was very keen as he looked up at her above them with bent brows. And whereas Mr. Barringcourt’s eyes were as black as night, his were of a piercing blue, or some colour very like blue. The quality that struck Rosalie most was their intense brightness. The youth, having admitted her, withdrew, and closed the door behind him. “You are punctual, Rosalie, and I’m very pleased to see you.” He rose as he spoke, and drew a chair for her, and on the hearing of his kind, grave voice much peace and reassurance settled on her. “I couldn’t help myself,” she answered. “I had to come. But you can’t be half as pleased to see me as I am to see you!” He looked at her. “Are you then so much in need of a friend?” “Yes; but I think I should make better friends with your son than you.” The vestige of a smile crept into his eyes. “But why?”