“Once or twice a year. He writes to ask how my father is--I often wonder why. He has only been here once since--since it all happened. He would not have it known that he was one of the family which was so much talked about--that he was the brother of----” Mary stopped with a flash of indignation in her eyes. “He has separated himself altogether from us, as you know; but he asks from time to time how my father is, though I scarcely know why.” “And you have told him, I suppose, about the children?” “No, Mr. Pen; he turned his back upon poor John from the beginning. Why should I tell him? what has he to do with it? We have left our subject altogether talking of Randolph, who is quite apart from it. Let us go back to our sheep--our lambs in this case. What is to be done with them?” “I will do what I can for them, as I did for their father,” said the vicar. “I was thinking that little Johnny must very soon--and Mary might as well--They can come to me for an hour or two every day; that would be something. But I think Randolph should be told. I think Randolph ought to know. He might be thinking, he might be calculating----” “What, Mr. Pen?” Mary confronted him with head erect and flashing eyes. “Why should he think or calculate about us? He has separated himself from the family. John’s children are nothing to him.” It was not often that Mr. Pen was worldly wise; but he had an inspiration this time. He shook his head slowly. “It is just that; John’s children might make all the difference to him,” he said. CHAPTER XIV. AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR.