Frank _was_ sorry. The happiest days of his life had been spent at Millbank. He liked the house, and the handsome grounds, with the grand old woods in the rear, and the river beyond, where in a little sheltered nook lay moored the boat he called his own. He liked the spotted pony which he always rode. He liked the freedom from restraint which he found in the country, and he liked the old man who was so kind to him, and who petted him sometimes when Roger was not by. Roger had been absent on the occasion of Frank’s last visit to Millbank, and his grandfather had taken more than usual notice of him,—had asked him many questions as to what he meant to be when he grew to manhood, and what he would do, supposing he should some day be worth a great deal of money. Would he keep it, or would he spend it as fast and as foolishly as his father had spent the portion allotted to him? “You’d keep it, wouldn’t you, and put it at interest?” his mother had said, laying her hand upon his hair with a motion which she meant should convey some suggestion or idea to his mind. But Frank had few ideas of his own. He never took hints or suggestions, and boy-like he answered: “I’d buy a lot of horses, and Roger and me would set up a circus out in the park.” It was an unlucky answer, for the love of fast horses had been the ruin of Frank’s father, but the mention of Roger went far toward softening the old man. Frank had thought of Roger at once; he would be generous with him, let what would happen, and the frown which the mention of horses had brought to the squire’s face cleared away as he said: “Hang your horses, boy; keep clear of them as you would shun the small-pox, but be fair and just with Roger; poor Roger, I doubt if I did right.” This speech had been followed by the squire’s going hastily out upon the terrace, where, with his hands behind him and his head bent forward, he had walked for more than an hour, while Mrs. Walter Scott peered anxiously at him from time to time, and seemed a good deal disturbed. They had returned to the city the next day, and Frank had noticed some changes in their style of living. Another servant was added to their establishment; they had more dishes at dinner, while his mother went oftener to the opera and Stewart’s. Now, his grandfather was dead, and she sat there looking at him across the table as the tears gathered in his eyes, and when he stammered out, “We shall never go to Millbank any more,” she said soothingly to him, “We may live there altogether. Would you like it?”