They made a strange picture, and one that each remembered in the long, dreary years that followed. That gray old man, with his evil face, and wicked eyes, sitting there, looking so intently at the two children before him. Robert, with his fine, manly face, glowing with excitement and exercise, a smile wreathing his full lips at Dora’s anger, while at the same time there was a half perplexed look in his eyes at the old man’s words and manner. He was holding Dora’s hand in a protecting sort of way, while she stood all flushed and indignant, and half ready to cry at the bare idea of being made fun of, her hair tossed and flying with every motion of her quivering little form. Yes, it was an interesting and striking picture beneath that rustic arbor, with the waving trees, the bright sunshine, and beautiful flowers, for a background, interspersed here and there with the gleaming white figures of statuary, and an occasional glimpse of the silvery waters of a miniature lake, as the waving branches of the trees were parted by a gentle breeze. As Dora mentioned the name of Robert Ellerton, a sudden change came over the squire’s wrinkled face. He became ashy pale, his lips were clenched beneath his teeth until they sank deep into the flesh, and his coal-black eyes became almost red with the fierce blaze of passion that seemed to stir him. His frame quivered, and he glanced at the youthful lovers in a way that frightened Dora, who pulled Robert by the sleeve, and whispered that she was afraid, and wanted to go home. Robert stood silent and spell-bound, at the sudden and almost terrifying change in the squire’s manner, staring at him with wonder-wide eyes, and gaping mouth. “Robert Ellerton!” at length almost gasped the man. “And is your father’s name Robert Ellerton, too, young man?” “Yes, sir,” replied the boy, still regarding him with surprise. “And your mother—tell me quick,” he continued, hastily, and almost sternly. “My mother is dead, sir. She died when I was born, and Aunt Nannie has always taken care of me.” “Dead! Oh, Heaven, dead! Jessie dead!” muttered the old man, pressing his hand to his side, and staggering back upon the seat from which he had just arisen. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, and his hands shook as if with palsy, as he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them off. “Oh, Jessie,” he wailed, “thou wert lost to me before, but I did not think that thou hadst gone so long to the regions of the unknown. “Say, boy,” he added, and he clutched Robert almost fiercely by the arm, “was your father kind to her? Did she love him?” “Of course he was kind to her—of course she loved him,” replied Robert, indignantly, but wondering still more at the man’s strange behavior. “Come, Dora,” he added, “we will go home; we won’t stay here any longer.” He again took Dora’s hand, which he had dropped in his astonishment, and started to leave the place.