"An unhappy man," I interrupted eagerly, "and a very narrow-minded one, too. It is a city-born creed. No one could live out here in the country and espouse it!" "Boy, how old are you?" he asked abruptly. "Seventeen next birthday, sir," I answered. "You have a glib tongue--the sign of an empty head, I fear." "Better empty than full of unhealthy philosophy," I answered bluntly. He laughed outright. "The country air has sharpened your wits, at any rate," he said. "You're a fool, Philip Morton; but you will be happier in your folly than other men in their wisdom. There's a great deal of comfort in ignorance." He gave me a careless yet not unkind nod and, wheeling his great horse round with a turn of the wrist, galloped down the hillside and across the soft, spongy turf at a pace which soon carried him out of sight. But I stood for a while on a piece of broken rock on the summit of the hill gazing after his retreating figure, and watching the twinkling lights from the many villages stretched away in the valley below. The sound of his low, strong voice yet vibrated in my ears, and the sad, beautiful face, with its languid grey eyes and weary expression, seemed still by my side. Already I began to feel something of the influence which this man appeared to exercise over everyone whom he came near; and I felt vaguely, even then, that if suffered to grow, it would become an influence all-powerful with me. When I reached home it was late--so late that my mother, who seldom betrayed any interest or curiosity in my doings, asked me questions. I felt a curious reluctance at first to tell her with whom I had been talking, and it was justified when I saw the effect which my words had upon her. A look almost of horror filled her eyes and her face was white with anger. It was as though a long-expected blow had fallen. "At last! at last!" she murmured to herself, as though forgetful of my presence. Then her eyes closed and her lips moved softly. It seemed to me that she was praying. I was bewildered and inclined to be angry that she should carry her dislike of Mr. Ravenor so far. Did she think me so weak and impressionable that a few minutes' conversation with any man could bring me harm? "You carry your dislike of Mr. Ravenor a little too far, mother," I ventured to say. "What can you know of him so bad that you see danger in my having talked with him for a few minutes?" She looked at me fixedly and grew more composed. "It is too late now, Philip," she said, in a low tone. "The mischief is done. If I could have foreseen this we would have gone away." "To have avoided Mr. Ravenor?" I cried, wondering. "Yes." CHAPTER VI. A DOUBTFUL VISITOR.