"Papa!" I said anxiously; my father heard me, and turned round with a sudden eager start, as though he was glad of my coming; but when he met my glance, and saw how I was accompanied, I cannot describe the flash of resentment, of haughty inquiry, and bitterness that shone from my father's eye--I saw it, but was too much excited to ask for an explanation. "Papa," I cried, again springing forward upon his arm, "this is Edgar Southcote, my cousin--did they tell you? I am sorry he does not seem to care for coming home, but he has been all his life in India, I suppose--Uncle Brian's son, papa--and his name is Edgar! did you send him to meet me? tell him you are glad that he has come home; look at Cottiswoode, Edgar--dear Cottiswoode, where all the Southcotes lived and died. What ails him? I believe he will faint. Papa--papa, let the boy know he is welcome home!" "Hester!" said my father in an ominous cold tone, "restrain your feelings--I have no reason to believe there is an Edgar Southcote in existence. I do not believe my brother Brian left a son--I cannot receive this boy as Edgar Southcote--he may be this man's son for aught I know." The boy's wan face woke up at these words; he shook his long hair slightly back upon the faint wind, and raised his eyes full of sudden light and courage. I understood nothing of my father's reluctance to acknowledge the stranger. I pleaded his cause with all my heart. "He is not this man's son," I exclaimed eagerly, "papa, he is a gentleman! Look, he has been so sad and downcast till now, but he wakes when you accuse him--he is an orphan, poor boy, poor boy! say he is welcome home." "You had best," said Saville, and the contrast between my own voice of excitement, and these significant tones with their constant sneer and insinuation of evil, struck me very strangely, "the young lady is wise--it is your best policy, I can tell you, to receive him well in his own house." My father's haughty face flushed with an intolerable sense of insult, and I saw Edgar shrink as if something had stung him. "Hester, my love, leave me!" said my father, "I will deal with this fellow alone. Go, keep your kind heart for your friends. I tell you these pretensions are false--do you hear me, child?" I never doubted my father before; when I looked from his face which was full of passion, yet clouded with an indescribable shadow of doubt, to the insolent mocking of the man beside him, I grew bewildered and uncertain; did my father believe himself? Yet I neither could nor would put faith in the elder stranger. I had been so constantly with my father, and had so much licence given me, that I could not obey him; and I did what I have always done--I suddenly obeyed my own sudden impulse, and turned to the boy. "I do not believe what he will say," I said rapidly, "but I will trust you; are you Edgar Southcote? are you my cousin? you will not tell a lie."