‘I trust all may be well on _that_ score,’ said Tor, knowing well what was in her mind. ‘For the girl did die, poor thing, somewhere about 1850, and we shall try to ascertain the exact date if it is possible. I do not in the least believe that this disgraceful episode need ever be made public; but I think it will give me the whip-hand of Belassis if ever he is troublesome. The secret is known only to me and to Miss Marjory Descartes. I think we are both to be trusted. I shall do nothing which might bring down sorrow and disgrace upon the innocent. If he lets my affairs alone, I will let his.’ Tor was not long in finding that he had got the whip-hand of Belassis pretty considerably. He was riding over the farm the following day, when the uncle joined him, mounted on an old screw, which was too broken-down in spirit to frighten the most timid horseman. ‘Ah, Phil, my boy!’ he cried with great heartiness. ‘Just the fellow I wanted to see. Ride on with me a little away from these clodhoppers—so, not too fast. I just wanted a word or so with you.’ ‘Certainly, sir.’ ‘Hum—ah—well—you spoke last evening of Whitbury, did you not?’ ‘I believe I did, sir.’ ‘Ah, yes—well, perhaps you might have observed a little constraint in my manner, did you?—a little absence of my usual frank heartiness—eh?’ ‘I certainly did notice something odd. I fancied it might be a threatening of cholera,’ answered Tor, ‘you went so green.’ ‘Ha! ha! Very good—cholera indeed! What a wag you are, Philip! No, no—now let us see—what was I saying? Oh, Whitbury? yes; and Miss Marjory Descartes. I suppose my name was not mentioned between you?’ ‘She seemed to know the name Belassis, when it came up casually in conversation. I believe she had known a Belassis in past days. A relation of yours?’ ‘Ah well, never mind now. I know you’re not a chatterer, Philip, and I’m going to make a father confessor of you. Ha! ha! that’s rather good, isn’t it? I say, old chap, do you know what wild oats are?’ He dug Tor playfully in the ribs. The young man smiled, and answered readily: ‘Well, yes, sir; I have some acquaintance with the article. They are generally pleasanter things to sow than to reap.’ ‘Why, yes, boy; so you have found that out too! Ah me! we all run a bit wild in our youth. I dare say you have played Don Juan sometimes before now—eh? Well, never mind that. It isn’t fair to ask too many such questions. But to come to the point; what I want to tell you is this—I sowed most of my wild oats in Whitbury.’ ‘Indeed!’