Mrs. Standish, on the death of her husband, had come to keep house for her widower brother-in-law. She had brought with her her orphaned grandnephew, Clive, (only son of Letty’s elder brother, long dead), whose upbringing was at once her chief visible claim to sanctity and her scriptural thorn in the flesh. “Clive has been so bad again this evening!” she said with a sigh, after a distant greeting to Caine, “I suppose these crosses are sent to us. But sometimes I am nearly tempted to wonder why. I actually caught him tacking his grandfather’s slippers to the floor, where I had left them, in front of the chiffonier, in Mr. Standish’s room. I locked him in the nursery for an hour while I prayed to see my duty clear. And when I went to him, strengthened and inspired to make him see his fault, what do you think I found him doing? The hardened boy was actually drawing caricature, depicting his grandfather trying to walk in the tacked-down slippers. He had not even the grace to hide it when he saw me coming. There was nothing left for me to do but to whip him. So I have sent him out to cut a small stick.” “Poor little chap!” muttered Caine, stifling a smile. He was fond of the boy, who in turn idolized him. “Perhaps,” went on Amzi, aloud, “If, instead of whipping him, you could let me talk to him and explain--” “Aunt Lydia!” piped a voice from the doorway. A little Eton-suited boy with a mop of yellow hair and sorrowful dark eyes, hesitated on the threshold. “Oh, _here_ you are,” added the child, coming into the room and walking straight up to Mrs. Standish. “I--” “Where is the stick?” asked Nemesis, her glasses reflecting less sanctity than was their custom, as they sought a glimpse of the hands Clive held clasped behind him. “I’m sorry,” replied the boy, apologetically. “It was so dark I couldn’t find a stick. But,” with a propitiatory smile, as he brought his hands forward, “Here are two stones you can throw at me, instead, if you like.” Caine’s laughter exploded; breaking in with scandalous intrusion, upon the penitential scene. “Mr. Caine,” said Mrs. Standish, her coldly righteous rebuke rising above Letty’s milder reproval, “I think, perhaps, for discipline’s sake, it might be well for you to end your call before you do anything more to make this wicked boy regard his fault as a matter for levity.” Caine glanced in humorous appeal toward Letty. But his fiancée, as usual in matters of family crisis, only stared back in piteous fear. “Mr. Caine,” called Clive, as the visitor completed somewhat frigid adieux and moved toward the door, “I am _very_ sorry I got you into trouble. I’m afraid Aunt Lydia don’t _quite_ understand us men.” CHAPTER XII INTO AN UNKNOWN LAND The red-haired man was fighting. He had always been fighting. But to-night he must wield weapons whereof he had no experience; unskilled, must meet deft opponents on their own ground. The thought thrilled him, with the joy of the born fighter.