"What do you mean, Southcote?" cried Mr. Osborne with a look of great surprise and almost anxiety in his face. "Nothing but my old opinion," said my father, "that every man must stand on his own ground, consult his own discretion, and build only upon his own merits. I have no faith in the kindness and compassion of friends; a _kind_ act, done with the noblest good intentions, may make a man's life miserable. No, no, justice, justice--what you deserve and no galling boon of pity--all is dishonest and unsatisfactory but this." Mr. Edgar and Mr. Osborne exchanged a slight rapid glance, and I saw the color rise over the young man's broad white brow; but I was too much concerned and moved by what my father said to observe the others much. His friend even did not comprehend him, I alone knew what he referred to. I alone could enter into his feelings, and understand how deep the iron had gone into his soul. After that Mr. Edgar was very silent, and listened to what was said, rather than took part in it--so that when Mr. Osborne spoke of going away, the young man had subsided into a chair, as humble and unconsidered as I was. He did not come to talk to me--he sat quite silent looking on--looking round at the pictures sometimes, with a quiet sweep of his eyes, often looking at the speakers, and sometimes examining curiously my work-table. I was sitting close by it, but he never looked at me nor did I look at him. When they were going away, my father, to my great surprise, bade him return. "Come again, I will be glad to see you," said my father. I looked up almost with consternation, and Mr. Edgar, though he looked gratified, was surprised too, I could see--however, he answered readily, and they went away. My father did not leave me immediately after they were gone; he walked up and down the room for a while, pausing sometimes to look at the ivy leaves which waved and rustled as much as the fine tendrils clasping the wall would let them, in the fresh spring breeze. My father seemed to have a certain sympathy with these clusters of ivy--he always went to that window in preference to this one where I was seated, and which looked into the free and luxuriant garden. After standing there for some time, he suddenly turned and addressed me. "Since you went out, Hester," said my father, "I have had another letter from your persevering cousin. He is at Cottiswoode, and would fain 'be friends,' as he says; though I will not permit him to be anything warm. He is of age--he has entered upon his inheritance--though I hear no one has seen him yet; and he does us the honor to desire to become acquainted with us, whom he calls his nearest relations. What do you say?" "You will not let him come, papa," cried I, "why should he come here? Why should he trouble us? We do not want him--you surely will tell him so."