Yes, he would marry Margaret Dearing, and he and she would travel the world over. He was ready to resign the active management of the big enterprise he had created, and he would be free in every sense. Yes, he would be free--just as other men were free. He had stepped down on the grass of the lawn and strolled round the house. Shouts and peals of childish laughter came from the yard adjoining his on the left, and on the grass, engaged in a joyous game of hide-and-seek, twoscore boys and girls ran merrily about. Galt walked farther down toward the lower boundary of his premises, seeking with his eyes an object he would not have confessed to himself that he desired to see--the child Dearing had mentioned. Now he saw the boy, but he was not within the Dearing grounds; Lionel had crossed over to Galt's land, and stood shielded from the view of the merrymakers by a hedge of boxwood. Galt saw him peering cautiously over the hedge, now stealthily lowering his head, now eagerly raising it. He was neatly dressed in white, as when his father had first seen him; there was a jaunty grace about the flowing necktie and low, broad collar which could have been accounted for only by the taste of an artistic mother. He held his broad-brimmed straw hat in his hand, and the breeze swept his tresses back from his fine brow. Why he did it Galt could not have explained, especially on top of the resolutions just formed, but he went down to him. Lionel's face was averted, and he was not aware of his father's approach till his attention was attracted by Galt's step on the grass. Then he started, flushed, and with alarm written in his face he made a movement as if to run away. “Surely you are not afraid of _me?_” Galt said, reassuringly, and in a tone which, for its unwonted gentleness, was a surprise to himself. “I have no right to be on your land,” the boy faltered, his great, startled eyes downcast. “Doctor Wynn said I must never leave his place. But there wasn't any fence, and I--I saw the children playing over there, and I wanted to get a little closer.” “Well, you needn't be afraid; you have done no wrong,” Galt heard himself saying, as undefined pangs and twinges shot through him. “You may come here whenever you wish.” “Oh, may I? Thank you. You are very good, and I thought you'd be angry.” “Angry? How absurd! What in the world could cause you to think I could be angry with a harmless little chap like you?” “I don't know; but I did. I was sure at first that you liked me. You know the day I almost went to sleep in your lap, when the pretty lady and the old gentleman were at the tea-table? Well, I _did_ think you liked me then, at first, you know, but when the doctor came and said it was late for children to be out, you put me down quick, and got red in the face, and never looked at me again.”