y name. I have met Percival Heron sometimes."

"Do you know that they have returned rather unexpectedly from Italy and
gone to Strathleckie, the house on the other side of the property--about
six miles from Netherglen?"

"How's that?"

"I suppose that Miss Murray thinks she may as well take possession of
her estate," replied Rupert, rather shortly. "May I ask whether you are
going to call?"

"Oh, yes, I shall certainly call."

"Then, look here, Luttrell, I want you to do something for me," said
Vivian, falling into a more friendly and confidential strain than he
usually employed with Hugo. "Will you mention--in an incidental sort of
way--to Mrs. Heron the reason why I have not come to Scotland--the claim
that my relation in Wales has on me, and all that sort of thing? It is
hardly worth while writing about it, perhaps; still, if it came in your
way, you might do me a service."

Hugo was so much relieved to find nothing more difficult required of him
that he gave vent to a light laugh.

"Why don't you write?" he said.

"There's nothing to write about. I do not correspond with them," said
Rupert, actually colouring a little beneath Hugo's long, satirical gaze.
"But I fancy they may think me neglectful. I promised some time ago that
I would run down; and I don't see how I can--until November, at the
earliest. And, if you are there, you may as well mention the reason for
my going to Wales, or, you see, it will look like a positive slight."

"I'm to say all this to Mrs. Heron, am I? And to no one beside?"

"That will be quite sufficient." There was a slight touch of hauteur in
Vivian's tone. "And, if I may trouble you with something else----"

"No trouble at all. Another message?"

"Not exactly. If you would take care of this little packet for me I
should be glad. I am afraid of its being crushed or lost in the post. It
is for Miss Heron."

He produced a little parcel, carefully sealed and addressed. It looked
like a small, square box. Hugo smiled as he took it in his hand.

"Perishable?" he asked, carelessly.

"Not exactly. The contents are fully a hundred years old already. It is
something for Miss Heron's birthday. She is a great favourite of mine--a
nice little girl."

"Quite a child, I suppose?"

"Oh, of course. One won't be able to send her presents by-and-bye," said
Rupert, with rather an uneasy laugh. "What a pity it is that some
children ever grow up! Well, thanks, Hugo; I shall be very much obl