The boy paused, hesitated; but he had raised his eyes to mine, and he did not withdraw them. His face crimsoned over with a delicate yet deep flush, like a girl's--then he grew pale--and then he said slowly-- "I cannot tell a lie--my father's name was Brian Southcote, I am Edgar; I will not deny my name." I cried out triumphantly, "Now, papa!" but my father made an impatient gesture commanding me away; it was so distinctly a command now, that I was awed and dared not disobey him. I turned away very slowly through the thick evergreens, looking back and lingering as I went. I was just about to turn round by the great Portugal laurel, which would have hid from me these three figures standing together among the elm trees and against the sky, when my father called me to him again. I returned towards him gladly, for I had been very reluctant to go away. "Hester, these _gentlemen_ will accompany you," he said, with a contemptuous emphasis, "show them to my library, and I will come to you." I cannot tell to what a pitch my anxiety and excitement had risen--it was so high, at least, that without question or remark, only very quickly and silently, I conducted my companions to the house, and introduced them to my father's favorite room, the library. It was a very long, large room, rather gloomy in the greater part of it, but with one recessed and windowed corner as bright as day. My life had known no studies and few pleasures, that were not associated with this un-bright corner, with its cushioned window-seat and beautiful oriel. When we entered, it was almost twilight by my father's writing-table, behind which was the great window with the fragrant walnut foliage overshadowing it like a miniature forest--but a clear, pale light, the evening blessing--light, as sweet and calm as heaven itself, shone in upon my little vase of faint, sweet roses--roses gathered from a tree that blossomed all the year through, but all the year through was sad and faint, and never came to the flush of June. Edgar Southcote sank wearily into a chair almost by the door of the library, but Saville, whom I almost began to hate, bustled about at once from one window to another, looking at everything. "Fine old room--I'd make two of it," said this fellow; "have down a modern architect, my boy, and make the place something like. Eh, Edgar! what, tired? you had better pluck up a spirit, or how am I to manage this worthy, disinterested uncle of yours?" I could not let the man think I had heard him, but left the room to seek my father--what could he mean? I met my father at the door, and with a slight wave of his hand bidding me follow him, he went on before me to the dining parlor, the only other room we used; my excitement had deepened into painful anxiety--something was _wrong_--it was a new thought and a new emotion to me.