“It was well hidden, then,” his wife retorted, coldly. “I never had much sympathy with him, and I have less now. A man has no right to be lost to the world, as he has been, and leave a magnificent inheritance wasting and neglected when there are others who would prize it.” “Is this the long-lost cousin who owns Beecham Park?” asked Vane, with sudden interest. “Oh, then I have heard of him, of course!” “He came into the property ten years ago,” Stuart explained, “and he has not come home till now. I must confess I always had a strong sympathy for this unknown cousin. What a strange life his has been! I am tempted to envy him the wonders he must have seen.” “I am surprised you should speak like that, Stuart,” said his mother, coldly. “I cannot understand any man of principle putting aside his duties for his inclinations.” Miss Charteris looked bored. “Is he married?” she asked, languidly. “No, no, my dear,” answered Mrs. Crosbie, quickly; “by some marvelous chance he has escaped matrimony. I always expected to hear of a low-born wife; but he appears to have a little of the Gerant pride within him, and has spared us that humiliation.” “Then he has no heir?” Vane observed. Mrs. Crosbie did not reply immediately, but Miss Charteris saw her handsome eyes wander to Stuart’s face and rest there. “He has the power of willing Beecham Park,” Mrs. Crosbie remarked; and the squire broke in with his quiet, monotonous voice: “I have often wished Douglas had married; he was just the man to be led to good things by a good woman.” “You always were absurd on this subject, Sholto,” his wife remarked, quietly; and the squire discreetly said no more. Stuart moved from the table as the meal ended, and, engrossed with the newspaper, was lost to all that was passing around. “I will write this morning and bid Douglas welcome,” Mrs. Crosbie said after a while. As she rose, she turned to the butler--“Fox, tell Mrs. Marxham to prepare some rooms for Sir Douglas Gerant; I expect he will arrive to-morrow. Now, Vane, I will leave you for half an hour; then, if you will equip yourself, we will drive this morning.” “Thanks, auntie,” and Miss Charteris walked slowly across the room to one of the long French windows, looking thoughtful and not altogether displeased. “The power to will Beecham Park,” she mused; “and the heir must be Stuart Crosbie. His mother’s eyes spoke that plainly.”