ut of his father's house because of the disgrace of his birth. In
the eye of the law he was nobody. The law allowed to him not even a
name;--certainly allowed to him the possession of no relative; denied
to him the possibility of any family tie. His father had succeeded
within an ace of giving him that which would have created for him
family ties, relatives, name and all. The old Squire had understood
well how to supersede the law, and to make the harshness of man's
enactments of no avail. Had the Squire quite succeeded, the son would
have stood his ground, would have called himself Newton of Newton,
and nobody would have dared to tell him that he was a nameless
bastard. But now he could not even wait to be told. He must tell it
himself, and must vanish. He had failed to understand it all while
his father was struggling and was yet alive; but he understood it
well now. So he came in to his breakfast, resolved that he would
write that letter at once.

And then there were orders to be given;--hideous orders. And there
was that hideous remembrance that legally he was entitled to give no
orders. Gregory came down to him as he sat at breakfast, making his
way into the parlour without excuse. "My brother cannot have been at
home at either place," he said.

"Perhaps not," said Ralph. "I suppose not."

"The message will be sent after him, and you will hear to-day no
doubt."

"I suppose I shall," said Ralph.

Then Gregory in a low voice made the suggestion in reference to which
he had come across from the parsonage. "I think that perhaps I and
Larkin had better go over to Basingstoke." Larkin was the steward.
Ralph again burst out into tears, but he assented; and in this way
those hideous orders were given.

As soon as Gregory was gone he took himself to his desk, and did
write to Sir Thomas Underwood. His letter, which was perhaps somewhat
too punctilious, ran as follows:--

Newton Priory, 4th November, 186--.

MY DEAR SIR,--

I do not know whether you will have heard before this of
the accident which has made me fatherless. The day before
yesterday my father was killed by a fall from his horse in
the hunting-field. I should not have ventured to trouble
you with a letter on this subject, nor should I myself
have been disposed to write about it at present, were
it not that I feel it to be an imperative duty to refer
without delay to my last letter to you, and to your very
flatteri