harles, I wished to wean him
early; but I was overruled, and the poor child drew his nature from
that woman for nearly eighteen months; it is a thing unheard of
nowadays."

"Well, but surely it is from our parents we draw our nature."

"No; I think it is from our nurses. If Compton or Alec ever turn out
like Reginald, blame nobody but their nurse, and that is Me."

Sir Charles smiled faintly at this piece of feminine logic, and asked
her what he should do.

She said she was quite unable to advise. Mr. Rolfe was coming to see
them soon; perhaps he might be able to suggest something.

Sir Charles said he would consult him; but he was clear on one
thing--the boy must be sent from Huntercombe, and so separated from all
his present acquaintances.

Mr. Rolfe came, and the distressed father opened his heart to him in
strict confidence respecting Reginald.

Rolfe listened and sympathized, and knit his brow, and asked time to
consider what he had heard, and also to study the boy for himself.

He angled for him next day accordingly. A little table was taken out on
the lawn, and presently Mr. Rolfe issued forth in a uniform suit of
dark blue flannel and a sombrero hat, and set to work writing a novel
in the sun.

Reginald in due course descried this figure, and it smacked so of that
Bohemia to which his own soul belonged that he was attracted thereby,
but made his approaches stealthily, like a little cat.

Presently a fiddle went off behind a tree, so close that the novelist
leaped out of his seat with an eldrich screech; for he had long ago
forgotten all about Mr. Reginald, and, when he got heated in this kind
of composition, any sudden sound seemed to his tense nerves and boiling
brain about ten times as loud as it really was.

Having relieved himself with a yell, he sat down with the mien of a
martyr expecting tortures; but he was most agreeably disappointed; the
little monster played an English melody, and played it in tune. This
done, he whistled a quick tune, and played a slow second to it in
perfect harmony; this done, he whistled the second part and played the
quick treble--a very simple feat, but still ingenious for a boy, and
new to his hearer.

"Bravo! bravo!" cried Rolfe, with all his heart,

Mr. Reginald emerged, radiant with vanity. "You are like me, Mr.
Writer," said he; "you don't like to be cooped up in-doors."

"I wish I could play the fiddle like you, my fine fellow."

"Ah, you can't do that a