I had no roof-tree--I had never felt this charming safety or security--this sublime knowledge of home, and keenly came this conviction to my heart, as I walked on that dark February night along the solitary highway, with the rain plashing in my face; for now, as if to add to the misery of my situation, the clouds had gathered in heaven and the rain fell heavily. An old fir-tree with its thick dark foliage sheltered me for a time. Towards daybreak the weather became fair, and after sleeping for some hours in a hayrick, I set forward again. I knew that I must present but a sorry figure, but cared not. I was always a lover of effect, and hoped it might aid me in my purpose, which was to urge Sir Basil to make some fitting provision for me. Alas! I was ignorant that he had actually written to Nathan Wylie, desiring that the pittance allowed me should be withdrawn, and that he was to turn me adrift for ever. The old minister of Netherwood, who was with him when this severe answer was despatched, besought him to "be clement, and to remember that he too had once been young." "Yes," growled the gruff baronet, "but it is so very long ago that I have forgotten all about it. Zounds!" he added, flourishing his crutch, and smashing a wine decanter, "I'll make that young dog smart for this, as I made his father smart before him!" His orders Mr. Nathan Wylie would cheerfully have obeyed; but in the end I may show how the lawyer, even in the matter of the will, _outwitted himself_, as he might, but for his hatred of my father's memory, and his slavish obsequiousness to Sir Basil, have made little Ruth one day Lady of Netherwood, and me, perhaps, his friend for ever. On that dull February eve I knew nothing of all this, and so trod on for several miles with hope in my breast--hope that I might stir some chord of sympathy in the withered heart of Sir Basil; but when I drew near Netherwood, and saw its copper vanes and antique turrets shining above the trees, my spirit failed me, and I thought with just indignation of my favoured cousin Tony, of his probable mockery at the sorry figure I presented, and the quiet insolence of the domestics; so I sat by the wayside inspired only by that bitterness and irresolution which I have described in the opening of my story. To Nathan Wylie's house I would never return. I sorrowed for poor Ruth, the sweet companion of so many stolen interviews--the secret love of my boyish heart. But to what end was this sorrow? Marriage and the responsibilities of life had never occurred to me. I felt, like a boy, that I loved Ruth dearly, and that was all.