"Tut, boy, nonsense!--I have sons of my own," said Colonel Sutherland; "and what is the good of an old man in this world? By-the-bye, tell me--have you ever sought or admitted the friendship of your neighbours since your grief? There are various families hereabout, I understand; your Rector for example--I am afraid you must have repulsed that good man in your first trouble--eh?--remember I am hard of hearing; you were too melancholy, too miserable for sympathy, and you have taken it into your head since that they had ceased to care for you?" "I was thankful for all the sympathy I got; I trusted everybody then," said Roger, simply; "but--it does not matter," he said, after a little hesitation; "I found out the difference afterwards; no--it was not me." "But the Rector--he has children, a son--was not he very friendly?" asked the Colonel, with persistence; he wanted to ascertain, as closely as he could, what was the real state of the case. "Ah, Willy!"--said Roger; he paused a little, and grew red, and shook his head with a slight, involuntary motion, as if to shake off some disagreeable thoughts. "We were very good friends once," he said--"pah! why should I care--you will not think worse of me, Colonel Sutherland? I had rather not think of Willy. It is the greatest folly in the world, but I cannot help it; when I think of meeting him, perhaps, in my changed circumstances--I who used to be almost, if there was any difference, superior to him--I feel it painful; I don't like the idea; this is the plain truth. I had rather not go to India for the risk; forgive me! I had rather you knew the worst of me." "If that is the worst I am glad to know it," said the Colonel. "It is a very natural feeling; to have been without it, would have proved you a different person from what I supposed. Now, tell me again; shall you stay here? you are still in your late friend's house--what is to be done with it?--who does it belong to?--and during this little interval shall you stay here?" "The Grange is _mine_," said Roger, with a little pride; then he continued, with a slightly bitter smile--"next week everything is to be sold--_everything_--if they leave a wooden stool for poor old Sally in the kitchen, I will be grateful to them; but they cannot sell the Grange. It is entailed--_I_ cannot sell it. Poor, dear old nest, it is the last wreck of all that ever belonged to the Musgraves; everything but that is gone already; yes, though it is empty and desolate I shall stay, till I leave all, in my own house." "Then you are heir, not only of love, but at law," said the Colonel, gravely.