'What a position that poor fellow has got himself into!' good Mr. Larkin thought, with a shrug of compassion, to himself. 'That reversion! Why it's nothing--I really don't know why I think about it at all. If it were offered me this moment, positively I would not have it. Anything certain--_any_ thing would be better.' Little Fairy grew grave, in spite of the attorney's smiles, whenever he saw him. He was now saying--as holding his 'Wapsie's' hand, he capered round in front, looking up in his face-- 'Why has Mr. Larkin no teeth when he laughs? Is he ever angry when he laughs--is he, Wapsie--oh, Wapsie, _is_ he? Would you let him whip me, if I was naughty? I don't like him. Why does mamma say he is a good man, Wapsie?' 'Because, little man, he _is_ a good man,' said the vicar, recalled by the impiety of the question. 'The best friend that Wapsie ever met with in his life.' 'But you would not give me to him, Wapsie?' 'Give you, darling! no--to no one but to God, my little man; for richer, for poorer, you're my own--your Wapsie's little man.' And he lifted him up, and carried him in his arms against his loving heart, and the water stood in his eyes, as he laughed fondly into that pretty face. But 'little man' by this time was struggling to get down and give chase to a crow grubbing near them for dainties, with a muddy beak, and 'Wapsie's' eyes followed, smiling, the wild vagaries of his little Fairy. In the mean time Mr. Larkin had got among the noble trees of Brandon, and was approaching the lordly front of the Hall. His mind was busy. He had not very much fact to go upon. His theories were built chiefly of vapour, and every changing light or breath, therefore, altered their colouring and outlines. 'Maybe Mark Wylder is mad, and wandering in charge of a keeper; maybe he is in some mad doctor's house, and _not_ mad; maybe in England, and there writes these letters which are sent from one continental town to another to be posted, and thus the appearance of locomotion is kept up. Perhaps he has been inveigled into the hands of ruffians, and is living as it were under the vault of an Inquisition, and compelled to write what ever his gaolers dictate. Maybe he writes not under physical but moral coercion. Be the fact how it may, those Lakes, brother and sister, have a guilty knowledge of the affair. 'I will be firm--it is my duty to clear this matter up, if I can--we must do as we would be done by.' CHAPTER LI. A FRACAS IN THE LIBRARY. It was still early in the day. Larcom received him gravely in the hall. Captain Lake was at home, as usual, up to one o'clock in the library--the most diligent administrator that Brandon had perhaps ever known. 'Well, Larkin--letters, letters perpetually, you see. Quite well, I hope? Won't you sit down--no bad news? You look rather melancholy. Your other client is not ill--nothing sad about Mark Wylder, I hope?' 'No--nothing sad, Captain Lake--nothing--but a good deal that is strange.'