“Well, my brother’s eldest boy, Ernest, is one of them. He is the finest boy, handsome to look at, and grand to trust in. There was a scene to be remembered the other day. Felix told the lad of his trouble, and he at once seemed to comprehend it all. He told his mother and his sisters more than they had guessed before, and then—it was the strangest thing—he knelt down and prayed to God to give them all courage to do the right. I would have called him a prig, but he isn’t one; he is a real, frank, manly Christian, such as we all ought to be. It seems a pity that the young are so much better than the old. But Ernest Stapleton is splendid. He said that he had seen a pretty little cottage, large enough to hold them all and one young servant, in a village two miles from Granchester, which was to be had for £20 a year. He asked them where would be the hardship, really, if they went there to live, and he and his father did the best they could with the business, and made it firm by the simple means of reducing the family expenditure and taking nothing out of it. He said that if they could fearlessly state the reason for the change, all whose opinion was worth having would think well of them; and that if they did not, their consciences would be at rest, for they would defraud no man; and that, with God’s smile on them, they would not only get on, but they would get honour, and get honest, too. And that boy is actually to have his way. The beautiful home and estate, with all the pictures and carriages and the rest, are to be sold; and my brother hopes that he can not only save himself from bankruptcy, but pay everybody fifteen shillings in the pound now, and the other five shillings in a year. Ernest says, and no doubt he is right, that the threatened strike will collapse, since the men will work for the wages which he is able to offer them, for a master who is honest enough to act in such a way as that. What do you think of that for a Twentieth Century boy, Harris?” “I should like to shake hands with him, doctor.” “And so you shall.” CHAPTER XXIII. A CITY OF HOMES. It was Saturday afternoon at Craighelbyl. The sun shone on the woods and the mountains and lighted the beautiful blue sea, while the birds sang in the trees, and the flowers smiled upon the banks as if they all cared for the London settlers and were doing their best to make them happy. It was an ideal day for a holiday, not too hot to be unpleasant, but sunny and breezy together; and the people, as they stood in the doorways of their homes felt themselves drawn away to the objects of beauty on which their eyes were resting; and many who had never thought of walking long distances in London were preparing to go down to the sea, or up to the highest point, in order to see the view.