"Yes: there was nothing to prevent it," sighed Sir Geoffry. "Had you allowed it, mother, the boy might have been born my lawful son, my veritable heir. Other sons might have followed him: the probability is, there would have been half-a-dozen of them feeding the peacock now, instead of--of--I was going to say--of worse than none." Lady Chavasse looked out at the boy with eager, devouring eyes: and whether there was more of longing in their depths, or of haughty anger, a spectator could not have told. In that same moment a vision, so vivid as to be almost like reality, stole before her mental sight--of the half-dozen brave boys crowding round the peacock, instead of only that one on whose birth so cruel a blight had been cast. "A noble heir he would have made us, mother; one of whom our free land might have been proud," spoke Sir Geoffry, in a low tone of yearning that was mixed with hopeless despair. "He bears my name, Arthur. I would give my right hand--ay, and the left too--if he could be Sir Arthur after me!" Arthur turned round. His cap was on the grass, his blue eyes were shining. "He is frightfully greedy and selfish, Lady Chavasse. He will not let the peahen have a bit." "A beautiful face," murmured Sir Geoffry. "And a little like what mine must have been at his age, I fancy. Sometimes I have thought that you would see the likeness, and that it might impart its clue." "Since when have you known him?--known this?" "Since the day after the accident, when my horse threw him down. Duffham dropped an unintentional word, and it enlightened me. Some nights ago I dreamt that the little lad was my true heir," added Sir Geoffry. "I saw you kiss him in the dream." "You must have been letting your thoughts run on it very much," retorted Lady Chavasse, rather sharply. "They are often running on it, mother: the regret for what might have been and for what is, never seems to leave me," was his reply. "For some moments after I awoke from that dream I thought it was reality: I believe I called out 'Arthur.' Rachel started, and inquired between sleeping and waking what the matter was. To find it was only a dream--to remember that what _is_ can never be changed or redeemed in this world, was the worst pain of all." "You may have children yet," said Lady Chavasse, after a pause. "It is not impossible." "Well, I suppose not impossible," was the hesitating rejoinder. "But----" "But you don't think it. Say it out, Geoffry." "I do not think it. My darling mother, don't you see how it is with me?" he added, in an impulse of emotion--"that I am not to live. A very short time now, and I shall be lying with my father."