"With the accent on the 'G'," replied Richard gaily. "Don't be a pedant, old chap--fishin' means the same thing as fishing, and not so much trouble to say. I suppose I ought to call Muffins 'Muffings.'" "Oh, bosh!" retorted Reggy politely, walking down to the gate. "Quite right--it is bosh, oh King. Where are you off to?" "Grange?" Dick arched his eyebrows, shook his head, and whistled, at which Reginald flushed a little. "What do you mean?" he asked, turning round. "Nothin', nothin'," said Dick demurely; "you're 'goin' a-courtin', sir, she said,' I suppose." "What nonsense, Dick," said Blake angrily, "as if Una----" "Oh! ho!" replied Pemberton; "sits the wind in that quarter? I never mentioned the lady's name. You ought to get our one and only poet to write you some verses-- 'Oh, I could spoon a Girl like dear Una Aileen Aroona,' --bad poetry, but beautiful sentiment." "I wish you'd be serious, Dick," said Reginald in a vexed tone; "I am only going over to the Grange to ask after the Squire's health." "All right," replied Dick good-naturedly; "give old Cassy my love, and tell her I'm going to propose to her--odd, isn't it?--so very odd." And with a capital imitation of Miss Cassandra's fidgety manner, he walked away followed by Muffins, while Reginald went out of the gate on to the village street. The interview with Dr. Larcher had touched him more nearly than he liked to confess even to himself, and his frivolous conversation with Dick had been somewhat of a relief to him, but now, being alone, he relapsed into sombre thoughts. He was dissatisfied with his position, and longed to know more about himself--who were his parents?--were they dead or alive?--why was he thrust into the world as an outcast? The only person who could explain the mystery of his life was Patience Allerby; he determined therefore to apply to her for the explanation. Filled with these dismal thoughts, he sauntered slowly up the street as far as the bridge. Here he paused, and leaning over the parapet, began to think again. It was a curious thing that this young man, brought up in a quiet, Christian household, should let his thoughts run on such a morbid idea as the possibility of his being a natural son. He had no experience of vice, and should therefore have accepted the marriage of his unknown parents as a fact, especially when his nurse asserted that they had been married. But the strangeness of his position led him to believe that there must be some motive for concealment, and this motive, he determined in his own mind, was the want of a marriage certificate. The real cause, however, which led to this morbid analysis of the possible relations between his parents, lay in a discovery which he had lately made--a discovery which changed the simple manly life he was leading into a raging hell of doubts and self-torturings.