“He refused to receive me; he pleaded illness, or rather he called it by its true name, indisposition. He deputed another gentleman to meet me,--a Colonel Sewell, his stepson.” “That 's the man my father saw at the Cape; a clever sort of person he called him, but, I suspect, not one to his liking; too much man of the world,--too much man of fashion for poor Dad.” “I hope so,” muttered Fossbrooke, unconsciously. “Indeed, sir; and why?” asked Tom, eagerly. “What of Lucy?” said Sir Brook, abruptly; “how did you think she was looking?” “Well, sir, on the whole, well. I've seen her jollier; but, to be sure, it was a leave-taking to-day, and that's not the occasion to put one in high spirits. Poor girl, she said, 'Is it not hard, Tom? There are only three of us, and we must all live apart.'” “So it is,--hard, very hard. I 'd have tried once more to influence the old Judge if he 'd have given me a meeting. He may do worse with that office than bestow it on you, Tom. I believe I'd have told him as much.” “It's perhaps as well, sir, that you did not see him,” said Tom, with a faint smile. “Yes,” said Fossbrooke, following along the train of his own thoughts, and not noticing the other's remark. “He may do worse; he may give it to _him_, and thus draw closer the ties between them; and if _that_ man once gets admission there, he'll get influence.” “Of whom are you talking, sir?” “I was not speaking, Tom. I was turning over some things in my mind. By the way, we have much to do before evening. Go over to Hodgen's about those tools; he has not sent them yet: and the blasting-powder, too, has not come down. I ought, if I could manage the time, to test it; but it 's too late. I must go to the Castle for five minutes,--five minutes will do it; and I 'll pass by Grainger's on my way back, and buy the flannel--miners' flannel they call it in the advertisement. We must look our _métier_, Tom, eh? You told Lucy where to write, and how to address us, I hope?” “Yes, sir, she wrote it down. By the way, that reminds me of a letter she gave me for you. It was addressed to her care, and came yesterday.” The old man thrust it in his pocket without so much as a look at it. “I think the post-mark was Madeira,” said Tom, to try and excite some curiosity. “Possibly. I have correspondents everywhere.” “It looked like Trafford's writing, I thought.” “Indeed! let us see;” and he drew forth the letter, and broke the envelope. “Right enough, Tom,--it is Trafford.” He ran his eyes rapidly over the first lines, turned to the next side, and then to the end of the letter, and then once more began at the beginning.