He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure, and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir, a girl came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm. “Grandfather, dear,” she said, “aren’t you going to the Court? You have a standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been there for so long.” He fondled the hand on his arm. “My dearest, they have not asked me for a long time.” “But why not to-night? I have laid out everything nicely for you--your new gaiters, and your D. C. L. coat with the pretty buttons and cord.” “How can I leave you, my dear? And they do not ask you!” The voice tried for playfulness, but the eyes had a disturbed look. “Me? Oh! they never ask me to dinner-you know that. Tea and formal visits are enough for Lady Belward, and almost too much for me. There is yet time to dress. Do say you will go. I want you to be friendly with them.” The old man shook his head. “I do not care to leave you, my dearest.” “Foolish old fatherkins! Who would carry me off?--‘Nobody, no, not I, nobody cares for me.’” Suddenly a new look shot up in her face. “Did you see that singular handsome man who came from the church--like some one out of an old painting? Not that his dress was so strange; but there was something in his face--something that you would expect to find in--in a Garibaldi. Silly, am I not? Did you see him?” He looked at her gravely. “My dear,” he said at last, “I think I will go after all, though I shall be a little late.” “A sensible grandfather. Come quickly, dear.” He paused again. “But I fear I sent a note to say I could not dine.” “No, you did not. It has been lying on your table for two days.” “Dear me--dear me! I am getting very old.” They passed out of the church. Presently, as they hurried to the rectory near by, the girl said: “But you haven’t answered. Did you see the stranger? Do you know who he is?” The rector turned, and pointed to the gate of Ridley Court. Gaston and Brillon were just entering. “Alice,” he said, in a vague, half-troubled way, “the man is a Belward, I think.” “Why, of course!” the girl replied with a flash of excitement. “But he’s so dark, and foreign-looking! What Belward is he?” “I do not know yet, my dear.” “I shall be up when you come back. But mind, don’t leave just after dinner. Stay and talk; you must tell me everything that’s said and done--and about the stranger.” CHAPTER II. IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN