“As he spoke, I folded the paper and placed it in my pocket. 'Now, sir,' said I, 'let _me_ hear the story you speak of.' 'I cannot. I told you before I was not at liberty to repeat it.' I insisted, and he refused. There was a positive altercation between us and he raised his voice in anger, and demanded back from me the paper which he said I had tricked him into writing. I will not say that he meant to use force, but he sprang from his chair and came towards me with such an air of menace that the boy, who was playing in the corner, rushed at him and struck him with his drumstick, saying, 'You sha'n't beat grandpapa!' I believe I rang the bell; yes, I rang the bell sharply. The child was crying when they came. I was confused and flurried. Balfour was gone.” “And the paper?” asked Haire. “The paper is here, sir,” said he, touching his breastpocket. “The country shall ring with it, or such submission shall I exact as will bring that Viceroy and his minions to my feet in abject contrition. Were you to ask me now, I know not what terms I would accept of.” “I would rather you said no more at present,” said Beattie. “You need rest and quietness.” “I need reparation and satisfaction, sir; that is what I need.” “Of course--of course; but you must be strong and well to enforce it,” said Beattie. “I told Lady Lendrick to leave the child with me. She said she would bring him back to-morrow. I like the boy. What does my pulse say, Beattie?” “It says that all this talking and agitation are injurious to you,--that you must be left alone.” The old man sighed faintly, but did not speak. “Haire and I will take a turn in the garden, and be within call if you want us,” said Beattie. “Wait a moment,--what was it I had to say? You are too abrupt, Beattie; you snap the cords of thought by such rough handling, and we old men lose our dexterous knack of catching the loose ends, as we once did. There, there--leave me now; the skein is all tangled in hopeless confusion.” He waved his hand in farewell, and they left him. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A LADY'S LETTER “Lucy asked me to show him this note from her brother,” said Haire, as he strolled with Beattie down the lawn. “It was no time to do so. Look over it and say what you advise.” “The boy wants a nurse, not a doctor,” said Beattie. “A little care and generous diet would soon bring him round; but they are a strange race, these Lendricks. They have all the stern qualities that brave danger, and they are terribly sensitive to some small wound to their self-love. Let that young fellow, for instance, only begin to feel that he is forgotten or an outcast, and he 'll droop at once. A few kind words, and a voice he loved, _now_, will do more than all my art could replace a little later.” “You mean that we ought to have him back here?” asked Haire, bluntly. “I mean that he ought to be where he can be carefully and kindly treated.”