"I don't call him so," said she, shortly. "A weazened-face fellow, with an odd look in his eyes as good as a squint! He's not much liked about here, sir." "Indeed! That's a pity. Is he married? I suppose not though, yet. He is young." "There's many a one gets married younger than he is. But I don't know who'd have him," added Molly, in her prejudice. "I wouldn't, if I was a young lady." "Who has acted as his guardian?" resumed Mr. Daw. Molly scarcely understood the question. "A guardian, sir? That's somebody that takes care of a child's money, who has no parents, isn't it? _He_ has no guardian that I ever heard of, except it's his father." Mr. Daw laid down his knife. "The young master of Trevlyn has no father," he exclaimed. "Indeed he has, sir," returned Molly. "What should hinder him?" "My good woman, you cannot know what I am talking about. His father died years and years ago. I was at his funeral." Molly opened her mouth in very astonishment. "His father is alive now, sir, at any rate," cried she, after a pause. "I saw him ride by this house only yesterday." They stared at each other, as people at cross-purposes often do. "Of whom are you speaking?" asked Mr. Daw, at length. "Of Cris Chattaway, sir. You asked me about the young master of Trevlyn Hold. Cris will be its master after his father. Old Chattaway's its master now." "Chattaway? Chattaway?" repeated the stranger, as if recalling the name. "I remember. It was he who----Is Rupert Trevlyn dead?" he hastily asked. "Oh, no, sir." "Then why is he not master of Trevlyn Hold?" "Well, I don't know," replied Molly, after some consideration. "I suppose because Chattaway is." "But surely Rupert Trevlyn inherited it on the death of his grandfather, Squire Trevlyn?" "No, he didn't inherit it, sir. It was Chattaway." So interested in the argument had the visitor become, that he neglected his plate, and was looking at Molly with astonished eyes. "Why did he not inherit it? He was the heir." "It's what folks can't rightly make out," answered the woman. "Chattaway came in for it, that's certain. But folks have never called him the Squire, though he's as sick as a dog for it." "Who is Mr. Chattaway? What is his connection with the Trevlyns? I forget." "His wife was Miss Edith Trevlyn, the Squire's daughter. There was but three of 'em,--Mrs. Ryle, and her, and Miss Diana. Miss Diana was never married, and I suppose won't be now." "Miss Diana?--Miss Diana? Yes, yes, I recollect," repeated the stranger. "It was Miss Diana whom Mrs. Trevlyn----Does Rupert Trevlyn live with Miss Diana?" he broke off again. "Yes, sir; they all live at the Hold. The Chattaways, and Miss Diana, and young Mr. Rupert. Miss Diana has been out on a visit these two or three weeks past, but I heard this morning that she had come home." "There was a pretty little girl--Maude--a year older than her brother," proceeded the questioner. "Where is she?"