"I—fancied—there—was a visitor at Mother Butter's," returned Trace in a hesitating manner, not being sure of his best policy, whether to speak of the visitor openly, whether not. "A friend of yours, somebody said." "Who said it?" "Really I cannot charge my memory with that. I saw you meet some—gentleman—in the plantation a few days ago: I thought it might be he." "What a fine night it is!" observed Mr. Henry, courteously ignoring the suggestion, and letting his pupil see that he intended to ignore it. "It is clear and cold enough for a frost." "Mr. Henry, would you mind telling me the name of the person you met?" resumed Trace, perceiving that if he wanted information he must ask distinctly for it. "I cannot tell it you. I cannot tell you anything about him," was the reply. "We will quit the subject, if you please, Trace; it is neither yours nor mine." "Where is he now? Will you tell me that? Is he in this neighbourhood?" "Let the subject drop, Trace," reiterated Mr. Henry, with quiet authority. "I say that it is no concern of yours or of mine." Trace felt himself checkmated; he feared he had not gone to work in a sufficiently crafty manner, which vexed him. "It may be better that you should satisfy me on this trifle," he resumed, rather scornfully. "You are in my power." "In what manner?" quietly asked Mr. Henry. "I know your secret. I could go to the Head Master this moment and say, 'We have a wolf in sheep's clothing amongst us; a man with a false name.' If he has glossed over other things, do you think he would gloss over that?" "You can try him." The equanimity of the voice was so entire, the manner so unruffled, that Trace began to feel doubtful of his grounds. "Can you deny what I say?" he asked. "I accuse you of being—not Mr. Henry, but Arthur Paradyne." "I am Arthur Henry Paradyne: as the Head Master knows. Though I wonder how you came to find it out, Trace. In what way does the fact affect you?" "The _contact_ has affected us," foamed Trace, giving way to temper for once in his life, for the cool tone nearly drove him wild. "Is it fitting that you, the son of—of—you know who and what—should be placed over us? I wonder you could dare to stay, knowing you were a Paradyne." "Knowing I was a Paradyne and that you were a Trace, it has made me all the more solicitous to do my duty by you," came the low answer of emotion. "Oh, Trace! have you never marvelled why I was so uniformly lenient to you, so anxious for your advancement, so solicitous to hide your faults; always striving to do you good, to get you on, to make your life at college easy? That bitter debt my father left, the wrong on you and yours, has been ever on my mind: I have been trying to work a tithe of it off, because I am his son, Arthur Paradyne."