d his incipient masculine vanity and added a cubit to his
stature. He knew now what he meant to be when he grew up. Not a painter,
or a soldier or a gardener--but a Bracelet-Bound Brother....

Gingerly, almost shyly, he slipped over his hand the deftly woven,
trifle of ribbon and gleaming hair. As the first glow of pleasure
subsided, there sprang the instinctive thought--"Won't Mummy be
pleased!" And straightway he was caught afresh in the toils of his
dilemma--How could he possibly explain----?

What was she doing? Why didn't she come----?

There----! His ear caught far-off footsteps--too heavy for hers. He
slipped off the Bracelet, folded it in Tara's letter and tucked it away
inside his shirt.

Hurriedly--a little nervously--he tied his brown bow and got upon his
feet, just as the door opened and his father came in.

"_Well_, Roy!" he said, and for a few seconds he steadily regarded his
small son with eyes that tried very hard to be grave and judicial.
Scoldings and assertions of authority were not in his line: and the tug
at his heart-strings was peculiarly strong in the case of Roy. Fair
himself, as the boy was dark, their intrinsic likeness of form and
feature was yet so striking that there were moments--as now--when it
gave Nevil Sinclair an eerie sense of looking into his own eyes,--which
was awkward, as he had come steeled for chastisement, if needs must,
though his every instinct revolted from the mutual indignity. He had
only once inflicted it on Roy for open defiance in one of his stormy
ebullitions of temper; and, at this moment, he did not seem to see a
humble penitent before him.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" he went on, hoping the pause
had been impressive; strongly suspecting it had been nothing of the
kind. "Gentlemen, as I told you, don't hammer their guests. It was
rather a bad hammering, to judge from his handkerchief. And you don't
look particularly sorry about it either."

"I'm not--not one littlest bit."

This was disconcerting; but Nevil held his ground.

"Then I suppose I've got to whack you. If boys aren't sorry for their
sins, it's the only way."

Roy's eyelids flickered a little.

"You better not," he said with the same impersonal air of conviction.
"You see, it wouldn't make me sorry. And you don't hurt badly. Not half
as much as Joe did. He was mean. He kicked. I wouldn't have stopped, all
the same--if _you_ hadn't come."

The note of reproach was more disconcert