"That is the Friary," repeated Mattie, decidedly; "but it is not miserable at all: it is very nice and pretty. The Challoners are very poor, you know; but their house looks beautiful for all that." "Oh, yes; I know all about it. I have been down to that place, Oldfield, where they lived; and what I heard has brought me here like an express train. I say, Miss Mattie Drummond, if you will excuse ceremony in a fellow who has never seen his father's country before, and who has roughed it in the colonies, may I come in a moment and ask you a few questions about my cousins?" "Oh, by all means," returned Mattie, who was very good-natured and was now more at her ease. "You will be very welcome, Mr. Challoner." "Sir Henry Challoner, at your service," responded that singular individual with a twinkle of his eye, as Mattie became confused all at once. "You see," he continued, confidentially, as she led the way rather awkwardly to her brother's study, hoping fervently that Archie would come in, "I have been making up my mind to come to England for years, but somehow I have never been able to get away; but after my father's death--he was out in Australia with me--I was so lonely and cut up that I thought I would take a run over to the mother-country and hunt up my relations. He was not much of a father perhaps; but, as one cannot have a choice in such matters, I was obliged to put up with him;" which was perhaps the kindest speech Sir Francis's son could make under the circumstances. Mattie listened intelligently, but she was so slightly acquainted with the Challoners' past history that she did not know they possessed any relations. But she had no need to ask any questions: the new-comer seemed determined to give a full account of himself. "So do you see, Miss Drummond, having made my fortune by a stroke of good luck, and not knowing quite how to spend it--the father and mother both gone,--and having no wife or chick of my own, and being uncommon lonely under the circumstances, I thought I would just run over and have a look at my belongings. I have a sort of fancy for Aunt Catherine; she used to write me such pretty letters when I was a little chap in Calcutta, and tell me about Nan, and Phillis, and--what was the baby's name?--Dulce. I believe she and the poor old governor never hit it off: the old man had been a sad sinner in his day. But I never forgot those letters: and when he was gone, poor old boy! I said to myself, Now I will go and see Aunt Catherine." "And you went down to Oldfield, Sir Henry?" "Eh, what? meaning me, I suppose? but out there they called me Sir Harry, or Harry mostly, for what was the use of a title there? Oh, yes, I went down and found out all about them from a chatty little woman, rather like yourself, and she sent me on here."