“I wish it?” repeated the squire, almost frowning; “why should I----” Then he stopped short, and rather inconsistently said, with something like irritation: “My dear Bertie, the man has settled here in our midst, and--and is our neighbor. But don’t let us talk any more about him. Come in. Of course you will dine with us?” But, strange to say, Bertie, with a faint accession of color, pulled out his watch and shook his head. “I can’t, I’m sorry to say. I’ll come over to dinner to-morrow, if I may.” The squire looked disappointed. “I thought your father would have spared you to-night, my boy,” he said. “But come over to us to-morrow, then,” he added, as he shook his hand. Bertie lingered a moment or two beside Olivia, after the squire had gone up the steps. “What do you think of Mr. Bradstone, Olivia?” he said, in a low voice. Olivia smiled faintly; then her brows contracted. “Exactly as you do,” she replied, and held out her hand. Bertie took it and held it. “Yes? Then why on earth does the squire have him here, and--and--praise him, and all that?” he asked. “I never knew him make excuses for a cad before.” Olivia looked straight before her. “I give it up,” she said; “ask me another.” Bertie looked at her averted face with a half-troubled questioning, then his brow cleared. “I tell you what it is, Olivia,” he said, as if he had found the solution, “the squire is too good-natured by half, that’s what it is!” “I dare say!” she said, quietly. “Mind, we expect you to-morrow!” and covering him with one of her rare smiles as with a flash of sunlight, she drew her hand from his clasp and ran up the steps. Bertie watched her till she had disappeared through the French window; watched her with an expression on his handsome, girlish face that made it very sweet and tender with its reverent admiration; then, with a little sigh of wistful longing, turned and walked quickly across the lawn. He passed out into the lane that led to The Dell, and stopping at the rustic gate, pushed it open. As he did so, a man dressed something between a butler and a gamekeeper, came toward him. “Can I see----” commenced Bertie; then he stopped, for the “mysterious stranger” himself appeared in the doorway and walked down the path. “Hallo! why, my dear----” “Mr. Faradeane,” interrupted the owner of The Dell. “Come in, Lord Granville,” and he opened the door. Bertie, coloring with a look of mystification and bewilderment, passed in and followed his host into the sitting-room of the cottage. The latter shut the door, and placing his hands--they were long and white as a woman’s, but as strong as a blacksmith’s--on Bertie’s shoulders, gently forced him into a chair. “Well?” said Mr. Faradeane, standing over him and looking at him with a strange smile, which was as sad as the shadow that dwelt in his eyes. “Well?” “Well!” repeated Bertie, almost glaring at him. “My dear----” “Faradeane,” interposed the other.