"I had missed you, Roy," said the lady, smiling proudly on the boy; and he looked with eyes full of pride at the beautiful woman, who now rested her arm upon his shoulder and walked by his side into the more homelike part of the old fortalice, whose grim interior had been transformed by wainscoting, hangings, carpets, stained glass, and massive oak furniture into the handsome mansion of the middle of the seventeenth century. They passed down a broad staircase into a noble hall, and from thence into a library whose broad, low, mullioned stone window opened into what had been the inner court of the castle, whose ramparts and flanking corner towers were still there; but the echoing stones that had once paved it had given place to verdant lawn, trim flower-beds ablaze with bloom, quaintly-cut shrubs, and creepers which beautified the walls once so bare and grim. "I want to talk to you, Roy," said Lady Royland, sinking into a great formal chair. "Bring your stool and sit down." "Got too big for the stool, mother," said the boy; "I can't double up my legs close enough. I'll sit here." He threw himself upon the thick carpet at her feet, and rested his arms upon her lap. "Want to talk to me? I'd rather hear you read." "Not now, my dear." "Why, what's the matter, mother?" said the boy, anxiously. "You're as white as can be. Got one of your headaches?" "No, my boy,--at least, my head does ache. But it is my heart, Roy,--my heart." "Then you've heard bad news," cried the boy. "Oh, mother, tell me; what is it? Not about father?" "No, no; Heaven forbid, my dear," cried Lady Royland, wildly. "It is the absence of news that troubles me so." "I ought to say us," said Roy, angrily; "but I'm so selfish and thoughtless." "Don't think that, my boy. You are very young yet, but I do wish you would give more thought to your studies with Master Pawson." The boy frowned. "I wish you'd let me read with you, mother," he said. "I understand everything then, and I don't forget it; but when that old--" "Master Palgrave Pawson," said Lady Royland, reprovingly, but with a smile. "Oh, well, Master Palgrave Pawson. P.P., P.P. What a mouthful it seems to be!" "Roy!" "I've tried, mother; but I do get on so badly with him. I can't help it; I don't like him, and he doesn't like me, and it will always be the same." "But why? Why do you not like him?" "Because--because--well, he always smiles at me so." "That does not seem as if he disliked you. Rather the reverse." "He's so smooth and oily." "It is only his manner, my dear. He seems to be very sincere, and to have your welfare at heart." "Yes, that's it, mother; he won't let me alone." "But he is your tutor, my dear. You know perfectly well that he came to be your father's secretary and your tutor combined." "Yes, I know, mother," said the boy, impatiently; "but somehow he doesn't seem to teach me." "But he is very studious, and tries hard."