He was fair, with warm blue eyes, golden hair, and a mustache of tawny gold. He had a frank, noble face, and his sunny eyes betrayed a generous soul. One who ran might read in his countenance a brave, dauntless soul, a grand, unselfish nature, an enlightened spirit, quick sympathies, and an honest, truthful, resolute character. Neva thought, as she shyly regarded him, that he was very like a hero of romance. “I can hardly believe that it is Arthur,” she said, smiling, her face softly flushing. “You are not at all like the Arthur Towyn I knew, and yet I can see the old boyish gayety and brightness of spirit. Your mustache has changed your looks greatly, Lord Towyn.” “It makes me look older perhaps,” said Lord Towyn gravely, “and as I am but three and twenty, and have a ward who is eighteen years old, it becomes me to produce as venerable an appearance as possible. Of course you are aware Neva, that I am one of the three trustees or guardians of your entire property, appointed by your father in his will?” “Yes, I knew it a year ago,” replied Neva, the brightness fading a little from her face. “Mr. Atkins wrote me about papa’s will. Mr. Atkins and Sir John Freise are the two other executors. You are very young for such an appointment, are you not, Lord Towyn?” “That is a fault that time will mend,” said his lordship, smiling. “I am young for the post, but Sir Harold Wynde knew that he could trust me, especially with two older heads to direct me. I am only the least of three, you know, and my youth was meant to balance Sir John Freise’s age. Your school life is over, is it not, Miss Wynde?” “Yes, it is over,” and Neva sighed. “I am on my way to a new sort of life, and to new acquaintances and friends. I feel a sort of terror of my future, Lord Towyn. I am foolish, I know, but a dread comes over me when I look forward to going home. Home! Ah, all that made the old house home has vanished. My poor brother George lies in an Indian grave. Papa--poor papa--” Her voice broke down, and she averted her head. Young Lord Towyn came nearer to her. He longed to press her hand and to offer her his sympathy. He comprehended her desolation, and the unhealed wound caused by Sir Harold’s fate. His heart bled for her.