on of Kenelm reached Sir Peter's hands.

BOOK VIII.

CHAPTER I.

NEVER in his whole life had the mind of Sir Peter been so agitated as it
was during and after the perusal of Kenelm's flighty composition. He had
received it at the breakfast-table, and, opening it eagerly, ran his eye
hastily over the contents, till he very soon arrived at sentences
which appalled him. Lady Chillingly, who was fortunately busied at the
tea-urn, did not observe the dismay on his countenance. It was visible
only to Cecilia and to Gordon. Neither guessed who that letter was from.

"No bad news, I hope," said Cecilia, softly.

"Bad news," echoed Sir Peter. "No, my dear, no; a letter on business.
It seems terribly long," and he thrust the packet into his pocket,
muttering, "see to it by and by."

"That slovenly farmer of yours, Mr. Nostock, has failed, I suppose,"
said Mr. Travers, looking up and observing a quiver on his host's
lip. "I told you he would,--a fine farm too. Let me choose you another
tenant."

Sir Peter shook his head with a wan smile.

"Nostock will not fail. There have been six generations of Nostocks on
the farm."

"So I should guess," said Travers, dryly.

"And--and," faltered Sir Peter, "if the last of the race fails, he must
lean upon me, and--if one of the two break down--it shall not be--"

"Shall not be that cross-cropping blockhead, my dear Sir Peter. This is
carrying benevolence too far."

Here the tact and _savoir vivre_ of Chillingly Gordon came to the rescue
of the host. Possessing himself of the "Times" newspaper, he uttered an
exclamation of surprise, genuine or simulated, and read aloud an extract
from the leading article, announcing an impending change in the Cabinet.

As soon as he could quit the breakfast-table, Sir Peter hurried into
his library and there gave himself up to the study of Kenelm's unwelcome
communication. The task took him long, for he stopped at intervals,
overcome by the struggle of his heart, now melted into sympathy with the
passionate eloquence of a son hitherto so free from amorous romance, and
now sorrowing for the ruin of his own cherished hopes. This uneducated
country girl would never be such a helpmate to a man like Kenelm as
would have been Cecilia Travers. At length, having finished the letter,
he buried his head between his clasped hands, and tried hard to
realize the situation that placed the father and son into such direct
antagonism.

"But," he murm