nowing
that my father's cousin possessed no share of my father's strength. He
might, at the utmost, give good advice, and help me with kind feeling;
but if he wanted to do more, surely he might have tried ere now. But my
thoughts about this were cut short by a message that he would be glad to
see me, and I followed the servant to the library.

Here I found Lord Castlewood sitting in a high-backed chair, uncushioned
and uncomfortable. When he saw me near him he got up and took my hand,
and looked at me, and I was pleased to find his face well-meaning,
brave, and generous. But even to rise from his chair was plainly no
small effort to him, and he leaned upon a staff or crutch as he offered
me a small white hand.

"Miss Castlewood," he said, with a very weak yet clear and silvery
voice, "for many years I have longed in vain and sought in vain to hear
of you. I have not escaped all self-reproach through my sense of want of
energy; yet, such as I am, I have done my best, or I do my best to think
so."

"I am sure you have," I replied, without thinking, knowing his kindness
to my father, and feeling the shame of my own hot words to Mr. Shovelin
about him. "I owe you more gratitude than I can tell, for your goodness
to my dear father. I am not come now to trouble you, but because it was
my duty."

While I was speaking he managed to lead me, feebly as himself could
walk, to a deep chair for reading, or some such use, whereof I have had
few chances. And in every step and word and gesture I recognized that
foreign grace which true-born Britons are proud to despise on both sides
of the Atlantic. And, being in the light, I watched him well, because I
am not a foreigner.

In the clear summer light of the westering sun (which is better for
accurate uses than the radiance of the morning) I saw a firm, calm face,
which might in good health have been powerful--a face which might be
called the moonlight image of my father's. I could not help turning away
to cry, and suspicion fled forever.

"My dear young cousin," he said, as soon as I was fit to speak to, "your
father trusted me, and so must you. You may think that I have forgotten
you, or done very little to find you out. It was no indifference, no
forgetfulness: I have not been able to work myself, and I have had very
deep trouble of my own."

He leaned on his staff, and looked down at me, for I had sat down when
thus overcome, and I knew that the forehead and eyes were those