To an outsider, Dick's behavior to his father was as nice as possible. He still kept up his old jokes, rallying him on his matutinal activity, and saying a word about the "early worm," "so bad for the worm, poor beggar," observed Dick. And he sauntered after him into the poultry-yard, and had a great deal to say about some Spanish fowls that had been lately imported into Longmead and that were great sources of pride to Mr. Mayne. Dick paid a great deal of dutiful attention to his father's hobbies: he put on his thickest boots every day after luncheon, that his father might enjoy the long walks in which he delighted. Dick used to sally forth whistling to his dogs when they went down Sandy Lane; he was careful to pause where the four roads met, that Mr. Mayne might enjoy his favorite view. In all these things Dick's behavior was perfect. Nevertheless, on their return from one of these walks they each had a secret grievance to pour into Mrs. Mayne's ear. Dick's turn would come first. "Mother," he would say, as he lounged into the room where she sat knitting by the firelight and thinking of her boy--for just now she was heart and soul on Dick's side--and full of yearning for the sweet girl whom he wanted for his wife, "I don't know how long this sort of thing is going on, but I don't think I can put up with it much longer." "Have you not had a nice walk with your father?" she asked, anxiously. "Oh, yes; the walk was well enough. We had some trouble with Vigo, though, for he startled a pheasant in Lord Fitzroy's preserve, and then he bolted after a hare. I had quite a difficulty in getting him to heel." "These walks do your father so much good, Dick." "That is what you always say; but I do not think I can stand many more of them. He will talk of everything but the one subject, and that he avoids like poison. I shall have to bring him to book directly, and then there will be no end of a row. It is not the row I mind," continued Dick, rather ruefully; "but I hate putting him out and seeing him cut up rough. If he would only be sensible and give me my way in this, there is nothing I would not do to please him. You must talk to him; you must indeed, mother." And then Mrs. Mayne, with a sinking heart, promised that she would do what she could. And after that it would be her husband's turn. "I tell you what Bessie; I am not satisfied about that boy," he remarked, once, as he came in to warm his hands before going upstairs to dress for dinner. "I don't know from whom he gets his obstinacy,--not from either of us, I am sure of that,--but his cheerfulness does not deceive me. He means mischief; I can see that plainly."