“Because we had begged once, and I would not beg again.” “Ah,” muttered Mr. Cardus, “the old spirit cropping up. Poor Rose, nearly starving, and dying too, and I with so much which I do not want! O, boy, boy, when you are a man never set up an idol, for it frightens good spirits away. Nothing else can live in its temple; it is a place where all other things are forgotten—duty, and the claims of blood, and sometimes those of honour too. Look now, I have my idol, and it has made me forget my sister and your mother. Had she not written at last when she was dying, I should have forgotten you too.” The boy looked up puzzled. “An idol!” “Yes,” went on his uncle in his dreamy way—“an idol. Many people have them; they keep them in the cupboard with their family skeleton; sometimes the two are identical. And they call them by many names, too; frequently it is a woman’s name; sometimes that of a passion; sometimes that of a vice, but a virtue’s—not often.” “And what is the name of yours, uncle?” asked the wondering boy. “Mine? O, never mind!” At this moment a swing-door in the side of the room was opened, and a tall bony woman with beady eyes came through. “Mr. de Talor to see you, sir, in the office.” Mr. Cardus whistled softly. “Ah,” he said, “tell him I am coming. By the way, Grice, this young gentleman has come to live here; his room is ready, is it not?” “Yes, sir; Miss Dorothy has been seeing to it.” “Good; where is Miss Dorothy?” “She has walked into Kesterwick, sir.” “O, and Master Jeremy?” “He is about, sir; I saw him pass with a ferret a while back.” “Tell Sampson or the groom to find him and send him to Master Ernest here. That will do, thank you. Now, Ernest, I must go. I hope that you will be pretty happy here, my boy, when your trouble has worn off a bit. You will have Jeremy for a companion; he is a lout, and an unpleasant lout, it is true, but I suppose that he is better than nobody. And then there is Dorothy”—and his voice softened as he muttered her name—“but she is a girl.” “Who are Dorothy and Jeremy?” broke in his nephew; “are they your children?” Mr. Cardus started perceptibly, and his thick white eyebrows contracted over his dark eyes till they almost met. “Children!” he said, sharply; “I have no children. They are my wards. Their name is Jones;” and he left the room. “Well, he _is_ a rum sort,” reflected Ernest to himself, “and I don’t think I ever saw such a shiny head before. I wonder if he oils it? But, at any rate, he is kind to me. Perhaps it would have been better if mother had written to him before. She might have gone on living, then.”