Philip reached the lodge and let himself gently through the gate, so as not to disturb Giles Green, the lodge-keeper, who with his little household had retired to rest. On his way through the park he heard the sound of human voices from a coppice to the right, and, pausing a moment, caught the mention of his own name. Almost immediately afterwards, another voice said,-- “Nivver mind ’im, owd chum. Lucy Blyth’s ower poor a dish for ’im to sit down tae. Why, Squire Fuller would shutt ’im if ’e was to tak’ up wi’ a blacksmith’s dowter.” Here another voice rapped out an ugly oath, “If’e dizzn’t I will, as soon as look at ’im. Ah mean to hev that little wench myself, an’ I’ll give an ounce of lead to anybody that gets into my road.” Here the voices became more distant, and Philip lost the remainder of the conversation. He had heard enough, however, to convince him that mischief was brewing, and that Lucy Blyth was right in warning him against the reckless revenge of Black Morris. Resuming his walk, and burdened by this new complication, he entered the portals of Waverdale Hall. His favourite Newfoundland dog, Oscar, rose from his mat, shook his shaggy sides, and received a kindly pat and friendly word from Philip, who straightway entered into his stately father’s presence. CHAPTER XI. BOTH PHILIP AND LUCY MAKE A CLEAN BREAST OF IT. “The voice of parents is the voice of gods, For to their children they are Heaven’s lieutenants; To steer the freight of youth through storms and dangers, Which with full sails they bear upon, and straighten The mortal line of life they bend so often. For these are we made fathers, and for these May challenge duty on our children’s part. Obedience is the sacrifice of angels, Whose form you carry.” _Shakespeare._ The squire was seated in his well-furnished and luxurious library, by the side of a handsome reflector lamp, with a book written by a popular free-thinker on his knees, for in works of a kindred sceptical character the thoughtful but cynical student had latterly taken great delight. “Well, Master Philip,” said he, “you keep late hours, and return as stealthily as if you had been keeping an assignation.” Here he lifted his shaggy eyebrows, and peered into his son’s ingenuous face, into which this chance home-thrust brought a rush of blood, and that “index of the mind” grew as red as the crimson curtains which hung in heavy folds behind him. The squire’s suspicious nature was instantly aroused. Laying down his book he rose from his seat, and stretching out his hand in solemn earnest, he said,-- “Son Philip, you will not be other than a gentleman? You will not sully your father’s name? You will not dim the honour of an ancestry which has held its own with the noblest through a hundred generations? You will not grieve your father by a base and unworthy deed? In the day you do, you’ll”--here the firm lip quivered--“you’ll break his heart!”