"Who are those boys?" It was a simple question, but it grated on the ear of Mr. Robert Beaufort--it struck discord at his heart. "Who were those boys?" as they ran across the sward, eager to welcome their father home; the westering sun shining full on their joyous faces--their young forms so lithe and so graceful--their merry laughter ringing in the still air. "Those boys," thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, "the sons of shame, rob mine of his inheritance." The elder brother turned round at his nephew's question, and saw the expression on Robert's face. He bit his lip, and answered, gravely: "Arthur, they are my children." "I did not know you were married," replied Arthur, bending forward to take a better view of his cousins. Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and Philip's brow grew crimson. The carriage stopped at the little lodge. Philip opened the door, and jumped to the ground; the brother and his son followed. A moment more, and Philip was locked in Catherine's arms, her tears falling fast upon his breast; his children plucking at his coat; and the younger one crying in his shrill, impatient treble, "Papa! papa! you don't see Sidney, papa!" Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his hand on his son's shoulder, and arrested his steps, as they contemplated the group before them. "Arthur," said he, in a hollow whisper, "those children are our disgrace and your supplanters; they are bastards! bastards! and they are to be his heirs!" Arthur made no answer, but the smile with which he had hitherto gazed on his new relations vanished. "Kate," said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from Mrs. Morton, and lifted his youngest-born in his arms, "this is my brother and his son: they are welcome, are they not?" Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with stiff affability, to Mrs. Morton, muttering something equally complimentary and inaudible. The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and Arthur brought up the rear. "Do you shoot?" asked Arthur, observing the gun in his cousin's hand. "Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my father: he is a famous shot. But this is only a single barrel, and an old-fashioned sort of detonator. My father must get me one of the new gulls. I can't afford it myself." "I should think not," said Arthur, smiling. "Oh, as to that," resumed Philip, quickly, and with a heightened colour, "I could have managed it very well if I had not given thirty guineas for a brace of pointers the other day: they are the best dogs you ever saw." "Thirty guineas!" echoed Arthur, looking with native surprise at the speaker; "why, how old are you?"