“Exactly,” said the Doctor, looking at him with a certain curious complacency; and he gave a nod at Mr. Fielding, who stood winking to get rid of a tear which was in the corner of his eye. “Exactly what I said! Now, can you deny it? By Jove! I wish he had been my son! It is what I knew he would say.” “Edgar, my dear boy,” said the Rector, “every word does you credit, and this more than all. Your poor father was mistaken. I say your poor father, for he evidently had something on his mind just before he died, and would have spoken if time had been allowed him. I have no doubt it was to say how sorry he was. But the Ardens are dreadfully obstinate, Edgar, and he never could bring himself to do it. It is just like you to say this. Clare will appreciate it, and I most fully appreciate it. It is the best way; let us not dwell upon the past, let us not even try to explain. Your being like your mother’s family can never be anything against you--far from it. I agree in every word you say.” This speech, flattering and satisfactory as it was, took the young man a little by surprise. “I don’t know what being like my mother’s family has to do with it,” he said, with momentary petulance; but then his brighter spirits gained the mastery. “It is best never to explain anything,” he continued, with a smile. “There is Clare calling me. I suppose I am to go to Miss Somers, notwithstanding your defence, Doctor.” And he waved his hand to Clare from the window, and went out, leaving the two old men behind him, following him with their eyes. He was glad to get away, if truth must be told; they were fighting some sort of undisclosed duel over his body, Edgar could see, and he did not like it. He went across the village street, which was very quiet at that end, to the Doctor’s great red brick house, and as he did so his face clouded over a little. “They have got some theory about me,” he said to himself; “am I never to be rid of it? And what right has any one to discuss me and my affairs now?” Then the shade gradually disappeared from his face, and in spite of himself there glided across his mind a sudden comparison between the last time he had been at Arden and the present. Then he had a boy’s keen sense of injustice and unkindness eating into him. It had not cut so deeply as it might have done if his temperament had been gloomy; but still it had galled him. He had felt himself contemned, disliked, thrust aside--his presence half clandestine--his wishes made of no account--his whole being thrust into a corner--a thing to hide, or at least to apologise for. Now, he was the master of all. The bells had rung for his home-coming; everything was changed. The thought made his head swim as he walked along in the serene stillness, with the swallows making circles about, and the bees murmuring round the blossomed trees. He had been living an uncertain wandering life, not always well supplied with money, not trained to do anything, an innocent vagabond. Now there was