Inside the library Lady Belward was comfortably placed, and looking up at Gaston, said: “You have your father’s ways: I hope that you will be wiser.” “If you will teach me!” he answered gently. There came two little bright spots on her cheeks, and her hands clasped in her lap. They all sat down. Sir William spoke: “It is much to ask that you should tell us of your life now, but it is better that we should start with some knowledge of each other.” At that moment Gaston’s eyes caught the strange picture on the wall. “I understand,” he answered. “But I would be starting in the middle of a story.” “You mean that you wish to hear your father’s history? Did he not tell you?” “Trifles--that is all.” “Did he ever speak of me?” asked Lady Belward with low anxiety. “Yes, when he was dying.” “What did he say?” “He said: ‘Tell my mother that Truth waits long, but whips hard. Tell her that I always loved her.’” She shrank in her chair as if from a blow, and then was white and motionless. “Let us hear your story,” Sir William said with a sort of hauteur. “You know your own, much of your father’s lies buried with him.” “Very well, sir.” Sir William drew a chair up beside his wife. Gaston sat back, and for a moment did not speak. He was looking into distance. Presently the blue of his eyes went all black, and with strange unwavering concentration he gazed straight before him. A light spread over his face, his hands felt for the chair-arms and held them firmly. He began: “I first remember swinging in a blanket from a pine-tree at a buffalo-hunt while my mother cooked the dinner. There were scores of tents, horses, and many Indians and half-breeds, and a few white men. My father was in command. I can see my mother’s face as she stood over the fire. It was not darker than mine; she always seemed more French than Indian, and she was thought comely.” Lady Belward shuddered a little, but Gaston did not notice.