morrow from Ludlow. Will you join them there, or
accompany me to London?'

'I will await your coming at Penshurst, Philip. I am somewhat disturbed at
the last letters from our dear father. He speaks of being broken down in
body and dejected in spirit. Verily, I can scarce forgive the mistress he
has served so well for her treatment of him. God grant you get a better
guerdon for faithful service than our father and mother won.'

'It is true, too true,' Sir Philip said, 'that they were ill-requited, but
has anyone ever fared better who has striven to do duty in that unhappy
country of Ireland? It needs a Hercules of strength and a Solon of wisdom,
ay, and a Croesus of wealth to deal with it. In the future generations such
a man may be found, but not in this.'

'Will you take the two boys with you, Robert and Thomas?'

'I shall take Robert and put him in a post of command. Thomas is all agog
to come also, but he is too young and weakly, though he would rave if he
heard me call him so. He shall follow in good time. There is a brave spirit
in Thomas which is almost too great for his body, and he is not prone to be
so lavish as Robert, who has the trick of getting into debt, out of which I
have again and again helped to free him. In my youth I too had not learned
to suit my wants to my means, but the lesson is now, I pray, got by heart.
A husband and father must needs look well to the money which is to provide
all things for these weak and defenceless ones who lean on him.'

'You speak of your youth as past, Philip,' Mary said. 'It makes me laugh.
You look, yes, far younger than some five or six years ago.'

'Happiness has a power to smooth out wrinkles, I know, sweet sister.
Witness your face, on which time refuses to leave a trace, and,' he added
earnestly, 'happiness--rather a peaceful and contented mind--has come to me
at last. When my tender wife, loyal and true, looks up at me with her
guileless eyes, full of love and trust, I feel I am thrice blest in
possessing her. And, Mary, the sight of our babe thrilled me strangely. The
little crumpled bit of humanity, thrusting out her tiny hands, as if to
find out where she was. That quaint smile, which Frances says, is meant for
her; that feeble little bleating cry--all seemed like messages to me to
quit myself as a man should, and, protecting my child in her infancy, leave
to her and her mother a name which will make them proud to have been my
wife and my daughter.'

'A