“That slovenly farmer of yours, Mr. Nostock, has failed, I suppose,” said Mr. Travers, looking up and observing a quiver on his host’s lip. “I told you he would,--a fine farm too. Let me choose you another tenant.” Sir Peter shook his head with a wan smile. “Nostock will not fail. There have been six generations of Nostocks on the farm.” “So I should guess,” said Travers, dryly. “And--and,” faltered Sir Peter, “if the last of the race fails, he must lean upon me, and--if one of the two break down--it shall not be--” “Shall not be that cross-cropping blockhead, my dear Sir Peter. This is carrying benevolence too far.” Here the tact and _savoir vivre_ of Chillingly Gordon came to the rescue of the host. Possessing himself of the “Times” newspaper, he uttered an exclamation of surprise, genuine or simulated, and read aloud an extract from the leading article, announcing an impending change in the Cabinet. As soon as he could quit the breakfast-table, Sir Peter hurried into his library and there gave himself up to the study of Kenelm’s unwelcome communication. The task took him long, for he stopped at intervals, overcome by the struggle of his heart, now melted into sympathy with the passionate eloquence of a son hitherto so free from amorous romance, and now sorrowing for the ruin of his own cherished hopes. This uneducated country girl would never be such a helpmate to a man like Kenelm as would have been Cecilia Travers. At length, having finished the letter, he buried his head between his clasped hands, and tried hard to realize the situation that placed the father and son into such direct antagonism. “But,” he murmured, “after all it is the boy’s happiness that must be consulted. If he will not be happy in my way, what right have I to say that he shall not be happy in his?” Just then Cecilia came softly into the room. She had acquired the privilege of entering his library at will; sometimes to choose a book of his recommendation, sometimes to direct and seal his letters,--Sir Peter was grateful to any one who saved him an extra trouble,--and sometimes, especially at this hour, to decoy him forth into his wonted constitutional walk. He lifted his face at the sound of her approaching tread and her winning voice, and the face was so sad that the tears rushed to her eyes on seeing it. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and said pleadingly, “Dear Sir Peter, what is it,--what is it?” “Ah--ah, my dear,” said Sir Peter, gathering up the scattered sheets of Kenelm’s effusion with hurried, trembling hands. “Don’t ask,--don’t talk of it; ‘tis but one of the disappointments that all of us must undergo, when we invest our hopes in the uncertain will of others.” Then, observing that the tears were trickling down the girl’s fair, pale cheeks, he took her hand in both his, kissed her forehead, and said, whisperingly, “Pretty one, how good you have been to me! Heaven bless you. What a wife you will be to some man!”