Nothing was farther from his mind than sentiment. He was not much given to sentiment, this hard-hearted old sire of an ancient stock. He never thought of the apocryphal day when he, being laid in his grave, should at last win the gratitude of his son. “When I am dead and gone you may be sorry for it” were not the words that any man should hear from his lips. More than once during their lives Lady Cantourne had said: “You never change your mind, John,” referring to one thing or another. And he had invariably answered: “No, I am not the sort of man to change.” He had always known his own mind. When he had been in a position to rule he had done so with a rod of iron. His purpose had ever been inflexible. Jack had been the only person who had ever openly opposed his desire. In this, as in other matters, his indomitable will had carried the day, and in the moment of triumph it is only the weak who repine. Success should have no disappointment for the man who has striven for it if his will be strong. Sir John rather liked the letter. It could only have been written by a son of his--admitting nothing, not even defeat. But he was disappointed. He had hoped that Jack would come--that some sort of a reconciliation would be patched up. And somehow the disappointment affected him physically. It attacked him in the back, and intensified the pain there. It made him feel weak and unlike himself. He rang the bell. “Go round,” he said to the butler, “to Dr. Damer, and ask him to call in during the evening if he has time.” The butler busied himself with the coffee tray, hesitating, desirous of gaining time. “Anything wrong, sir? I hope you are not feeling ill,” he said nervously. “Ill, sir,” cried Sir John. “D--n it, no; do I look ill? Just obey my orders if you please.” CHAPTER XLIV. MADE UP My faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect end. “MY DEAR JACK,--At the risk of being considered an interfering old woman, I write to ask you whether you are not soon coming to England again. As you are aware, your father and I knew each other as children. We have known each other ever since--we are now almost the only survivors of our generation. My reason for troubling you with this communication is that during the last six months I have noticed a very painful change in your father. He is getting very old--he has no one but servants about him. You know his manner--it is difficult for any one to approach him, even for me. If you could come home--by accident--I think that you will never regret it in after life. I need not suggest discretion as to this letter. Your affectionate friend, “CAROLINE CANTOURNE.”