"Let's have the little Scotch terriers. I'm thinking, Wyn, of taking up those beetles that live in decayed wood--in old trees. You'll have to hunt 'em up for me." "Very well, sir, but I don't know as even Granny would like _them_ about," said Wyn, as he went after the dogs. "Granny? You have seen old Bunny, Val?" "Oh yes. That was a real welcome. But, Edgar, surely it could be managed for her to come and see you; she wishes it so much." "I should like to see her again," said Edgar. "I missed her when she was crippled, too, poor old dear!" As he spoke, Geraldine, having come back from church and let out Apollo, joined them, and presently Mr Cunningham, walking home by himself, paused a moment in front of the terrace, as a sound, unheard for many a year, fell on his ears--the clear ringing laugh of his first-born son. So had Alwyn laughed in days before they quarrelled, so had he laughed when his mother had been alive to hear him, and when Mr Cunningham, if a rather cold father, had been at least a proud one. The three puppies, Apollo, a young fox terrier, and a little rough Skye, were sitting up on their hind legs in a row, under the tuition of Wyn, who squatted on the ground opposite them. Geraldine was looking on, holding her breath with delight, while Alwyn, leaning against the window by Edgar's side, was laughing heartily and teasing Geraldine about her pet. "Three to one on the little ruffian! Apollo's nowhere. His back's too long, and the fox terrier's too frisky. Bravo, Wyn! You ought to keep a circus; they're steady yet." "I should like to, sir, uncommon, and train the performing dogs, sir," said Wyn. "You look as if you had been practising for the clown," said Edgar, as his father came forward on to the terrace. Down tumbled the puppies and up jumped Wyn, retreating hastily. Alwyn grew stiff and grave in a moment, offering his father a chair, and Geraldine looked, as she felt, disappointed at the interruption. Mr Cunningham sat down. It was the first time that the family had been thus all together, the first time he had seen his three children side by side for more than eight years. He noticed them. He observed that Geraldine was growing a tall, stately girl, with the promise of distinction if not of beauty. He noticed the hopeless delicacy of Edgar's look, the son whom he had made his heir; and he looked at the handsome, grave, strong face of the son he had disinherited, and for the first time he confessed to himself that he looked fit, at any rate, to be the master of Ashcroft.