e charge of the boy, and as soon as the father was laid in
the grave, he took Hugo home with him to Netherglen.

Richard Luttrell could hardly have treated Hugo more generously than he
did, but it must be confessed that he never liked the boy. The faults
which were evident from the first day of his entrance into the
Luttrells' home, were such as disgusted and repelled the somewhat
austere young ruler of the household. Hugo pilfered, lied, cringed,
stormed, in turn, like a veritable savage. He was sent to school, and
learned the wisdom of keeping his tongue silent, and his evil deeds
concealed, but he did not learn to amend his ways. In spite of his
frequent misconduct, he had some qualities which endeared him to the
hearts of those whom he cared to conciliate. His _naivete_, his
caressing ways, his beautiful, delicate face and appealing eyes, were
not without effect even upon the severest of his judges. Owing, perhaps,
to these attributes rather than to any positive merit of his own, he
scrambled through life at school, at a tutor's, at a military college,
without any irreparable disgrace, his aptitude for getting into scrapes
being equalled only by his cleverness in getting out of them. Richard,
indeed, had at times received reports of his conduct which made him
speak angrily and threaten condign punishment, but not until this day,
when the discovery of the lost bank-notes in Hugo's possession betokened
an absence of principle transcending even Richard's darkest
anticipations, had any serious breach occurred between the cousins. With
some men, the fact that it was the first grave offence would have had
weight, and inclined them to be merciful to the offender, but Richard
Luttrell was not a merciful man. When he discovered wrong-doing, he
punished it with the utmost severity, and never trusted the culprit
again. He had been known to say, in boasting accents, that he did not
understand what forgiveness meant. Forgiveness of injuries? Weakness of
mind: that was his opinion.

Hugo Luttrell's nature was also not a forgiving one. He lay upon the
grass, writhing, sobbing, tearing at the ground in an access of passion
equally composed of rage and shame. He had almost lost the remembrance
of his own offence in resentment of its punishment. He had been struck;
he had been insulted; he, a Sicilian gentleman! (Hugo never thought of
himself as an Englishman.) He loathed Richard Luttrell; he muttered
curses upon him as he lay on th