“What a wonderfully nice young fellow Carter is. Gets himself up as if he were living in town. I _do_ like to see a fellow wear a tall hat on Sunday; it’s far and away more respectable than a round one.” Ronald was incorrigible in this respect, and became as the deaf adder. Five minutes’ grace. “How that fellow Stanton did talk at dinner; one couldn’t get a word in edgeways. By-the-by, I think _you_ talk a little too freely, Ronald, to men older and wiser than yourself.” “_Semper ego auditor tantum_?” muttered Ronald. “What is it you are saying, Ronald? I do wish you would speak up.” “I said I would only listen in future, sir. _Nunquamne reponam_?” (the latter _sotto voce_). “There you are—muttering again.” “I was only saying I wished I could write a book, sir.” Miss Heyward couldn’t hold a candle to her brother in this particular department. She lacked altogether the delicacy of “finesse” which is essential to its development, and, strange to say, possessed in a high degree by people of feeble intelligence. But she seconded him bravely in cases where temper and determination would serve its purpose. Here it was to advocate stronger measures, and hers was the master mind. She was not without a suspicion that time and reiteration had blunted the edge of her brother’s innuendo. When therefore she was called in for consultation, Ronald knew that it betokened a definite and concerted campaign. He would be sent to Coventry, or fed on roast pork, and specialities that his soul abhorred, or (but for his age) have been whipped. Finally, and in the last resort, his pocket money would be docked—a punishment that was known to be effective. Spending little upon himself, he had always a band of pensioners who were dependent on him for assistance. So it was through them that he could most surely be reached. “Seething the kid in the mother’s milk,” as we are told in ‘Kenilworth,’ is an occupation that offers a wide field to the ingenuity of the inventive. “Two’s company and three’s none,” muttered Ronald, when, on entering a room suddenly, he found an animated conversation drop suddenly into silence, while an echo of his own escapades and iniquities lingered in the air. II A strange and melancholy life it was for a lad of Ronald’s temperament; a strange and incongruous fellowship: “For East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet” Yet it had in it one redeeming feature. Only a mile from Broadwater, in the white house that nestles in the heart of the valley, just visible to us over a depression in the lulls, lived a young widow of twenty-eight—Ronald’s dearest friend, and his comforter and consoler whenever the monotony of existence seemed almost intolerable to the lad just entering on manhood.