gly:

"Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom."

He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,--a bent,
benign-looking man,--who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the
strange speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with
courteous inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was
a scar. He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon
Varcoe was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had
thrown a stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a
scar.

Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him,
puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning. His
eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick
lifting of the shoulders, he said:

"Robert Belward!" Then added: "Impossible! But he is a Belward."

He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He
paused beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested
on it.

"That is it," he said at last. "He is like the picture of this Sir
Gaston. Strange."

He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings
with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and
affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure,
and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe
was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be
useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir, a
girl came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm.

"Grandfather, dear," she said, "aren't you going to the Court? You have
a standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been
there for so long."

He fondled the hand on his arm.

"My dearest, they have not asked me for a long time."

"But why not to-night? I have laid out everything nicely for you--your
new gaiters, and your D. C. L. coat with the pretty buttons and cord."

"How can I leave you, my dear? And they do not ask you!"

The voice tried for playfulness, but the eyes had a disturbed look.

"Me? Oh! they never ask me to dinner-you know that. Tea and formal
visits are enough for Lady Belward, and almost too much for me. There
is yet time to dress. Do say you will go. I want you to be friendly with
them."

The old man shook his head.

"I do not care to leave you, my dearest."

"Foolish old fatherkins! Who would carry me off?-