“Thank me!--what for?” “For a kind thought. So, then, you like the boy?” “Mayn’t I like him?” asked Fairthorn, looking rather frightened; “surely you do!” “Yes, I like him much; I am trying my best to love him. But, but”--Darrell turned quickly, and the portrait of his father over the mantelpiece came full upon his sight,--an impressive, a haunting face,--sweet and gentle, yet with the high narrow brow and arched nostril of pride, with restless melancholy eyes, and an expression that revealed the delicacy of intellect, but not its power. There was something forlorn, but imposing, in the whole effigy. As you continued to look at the countenance, the mournful attraction grew upon you. Truly a touching and a most lovable aspect. Darrell’s eyes moistened. “Yes, my father, it is so!” he said softly. “All my sacrifices were in vain. The race is not to be rebuilt! No grandchild of yours will succeed me,--me, the last of the old line! Fairthorn, how can I love that boy? He may be my heir, and in his veins not a drop of my father’s blood!” “But he has the blood of your father’s ancestors; and why must you think of him as your heir?--you, who, if you would but go again into the world, might yet find a fair wi--” With such a stamp came Darrell’s foot upon the floor that the holy and conjugal monosyllable dropping from Fairthorn’s lips was as much cut in two as if a shark had snapped it. Unspeakably frightened, the poor man sidled away, thrust himself behind a tall reading-desk, and, peering aslant from that covert, whimpered out, “Don’t, don’t now, don’t be so awful; I did not mean to offend, but I’m always saying something I did not mean; and really you look so young still” (coaxingly), “and, and--” Darrell, the burst of rage over, had sunk upon a chair, his face bowed over his hands, and his breast heaving as if with suppressed sobs. The musician forgot his fear; he sprang forward, almost upsetting the tall desk; he flung himself on his knees at Darrell’s feet, and exclaimed in broken words, “Master, master, forgive me! Beast that I was! Do look up--do smile or else beat me--kick me.” Darrell’s right hand slid gently from his face, and fell into Fairthorn’s clasp. “Hush, hush,” muttered the man of granite; “one moment, and it will be over.” One moment! That might be but a figure of speech; yet before Lionel had finished half the canto that was plunging him into fairyland, Darrell was standing by him with his ordinary tranquil mien; and Fairthorn’s flute from behind the boughs of a neighbouring lime-tree was breathing out an air as dulcet as if careless Fauns still piped in Arcady, and Grief were a far dweller on the other side of the mountains, of whom shepherds, reclining under summer leaves, speak as we speak of hydras and unicorns, and things in fable.