e might never see it again. Only a few months ago, when
he had sat on the hummock, falling into much the same position as he had
so often done as a boy, he had even wondered whether he wanted to return
to it. Broadmead could never be the same place to him again. His father
had died five years since, and that had been a terrible and sincere
grief to him, but he had his mother, and had to fill his father's place
as well as he could. The work on the estate gave him much to do, and if
the news from France which found its way to Broadmead set him dreaming
afresh at times, he cast such visions away. He had no inclination to
leave his mother now she was alone, and he settled down to peaceful,
happy days, hardly desiring that anything should be different, perhaps
forgetting that some day it must be different. Not a year had passed
since the change had come. A few days' illness and his mother was
suddenly dead.

He was alone in the world. How could Broadmead ever be the same to him
again?

"Seth, did my mother ever say anything more to you about me?" he asked
suddenly.

"She thanked me for saving you from the bull, though I wanted no
thanks."

"Nothing more?"

"Only once," Seth returned, "and then she said almost the same words as
she did when I first saw you lying on her knee. 'See that he comes to no
harm, Seth.' She sent for me the night before she died, Master Richard.
That's why I'm here. I didn't want to leave Virginia particularly."

Barrington might have expressed some regret for bringing his companion
to France had not his horse suddenly demanded his attention. They had
traversed the long stretch of straight road, and were passing by a thin
wood of young trees. Long grass bordered the road on either side, and
Barrington's horse suddenly shied and became restive.

"There's something lying there," said Seth, whose eyes were suddenly
focused on the ground, and then he dismounted quickly. "It's a man,
Master Richard, and by the Lord! he's had rough treatment."

Barrington quieted his horse with soothing words, and dismounting,
tethered him to a gate.

"He's not dead," Seth said, as Barrington bent over him; and as if to
endorse his words, the man moved slightly and groaned.

"We can't leave him, but--"

"But we shall not reach Paris to-night," Seth returned. "Didn't they
tell us we should pass by a village? I have forgotten the name."

"Tremont," said Richard.

"It can't be much farther. There's no seeing t