"You have made a mistake, I think," he said stiffly, resting both hands on the table. His fine face was flushed, and Dick, looking on in wonderment, noticed that the riband that bound his queue of grey hair was quivering. "Surely, Cousin Roger, you’ll let bygones be bygones," said John Trevanion suavely. "’Tis now—I don’t know how many years ago." "When I last saw you, sir, I bade you never enter my door again. I do not call back my words, and see no reason to do so. You will oblige me by relieving me of your presence." The words came sternly from his trembling lips. Dick felt himself go hot and cold. "Is there no word repentance in your dictionary, Roger Trevanion?" said his cousin bitterly. "You’re a good Christian, I suppose—go to church and say the Commandments, ’love your neighbour,’ and all that; but you’ll harden your heart against one of your own kin that had the ill-luck to offend you——" "Stop!" thundered the Squire. "The offence to me I make nothing of; you have shamed your name and put yourself beyond the pale of honest men. ’Ill-luck,’ you call it! ’Twas no ill-luck—though we Trevanions have enough of that, God knows!—but the act and nature of a scoundrel. I am ashamed you bear my name. I disown you. Take yourself out of my sight." His wife laid a gentle hand on his arm. "A pretty welcome, on my soul, for a man who has lived down the faults of his youth," said John Trevanion. "I tell you, Roger Trevanion, I will not put up with such usage—I will not! I don’t want your forgiveness; a fig for your friendship! But I demand decent treatment from you, and——" "By the Lord that made me," cried the Squire, "if you do not instantly remove yourself from this house I will have you thrown out. Do you hear me, sir?" John Trevanion’s eyes glittered as he returned his cousin’s wrathful look. He half opened his mouth, closed it with a snap; then an inscrutable smile stole upon his face. He shrugged, turned on his heel, and went silently from the room. The Squire sank into his chair. The flush had vanished from his face, leaving it ashy pale. His hands trembled with excess of indignation. "My dear, calm yourself," said his wife soothingly. "He is gone." He made no reply. Dick sat silent, every nerve tingling with excitement. In a minute his father rose, leaving his coffee half finished, and strode heavily from the room. "Mother, what does it mean?" asked Dick breathlessly. "Was that cousin John?" "Yes, my dear. Do not name him to your father. I will go to him; I fear he will be ill. Finish your breakfast, Dick, and go to the Parsonage. You had better stay there all day; Mr. Carlyon will give you some dinner."