ot keep
a still tongue in their heads at the luncheon-table, but must needs
wrangle together as they used to when they were just babies? Never you
mind, my dear; it's not Richard's fault, and Brian was always a
troublesome lad. It will be better for us all when he's away at his
books in London."

She patted Angela's shoulder and passed on, leaving the girl more vexed
than comforted. She was sorry to see Mrs. Luttrell show the partiality
for Richard which everyone accused her of feeling. In the mother's eyes,
Richard was always right and Brian wrong. Angela was just enough to be
troubled at times by this difference in the treatment of the brothers.

Brian went down to the loch ostensibly to get out the boat. In reality
he wanted to see whether Hugo was still there. Richard had told him of
the punishment to which he had subjected the lad; and Brian had been
frankly indignant about it. The two had come to high words; thus there
had, indeed, been some foundation for the visitors' suspicions of a
previous quarrel.

Hugo had disappeared; only the broken brushwood and the crushed bracken
told of the struggle that had taken place, and of the boy's agony of
grief and rage. Brian resolved to follow and find him. He did not like
the thought of leaving him to bear his shame alone. Besides, he
understood Hugo's nature, and he was afraid--though he scarcely knew
what he feared.

But he searched in vain. Hugo was not to be found. He did not seem to
have quitted the place altogether, for he had given no orders about his
luggage, nor been seen on the road to the nearest town, and Brian knew
that it would be almost impossible to find him in a short space of time
if he did not wish to be discovered. It was possible that he had gone
into the woods; he was as fond of them as a wild animal of his lair.
Brian took his gun from the rack, as an excuse for an expedition, then
sallied forth, scarcely hoping, however, to be successful in his search.

He had not gone very far when he saw a man's form at some little
distance from him, amongst the trees. He stopped short and
reconnoitered. No, it was not Hugo. That brown shooting-coat and those
stalwart limbs belonged rather to Richard Luttrell. Brian looked,
shrugged his shoulders to himself, and then turned back. He did not want
to meet his brother then.

But Richard had heard the footstep and glanced round. After a moment of
evident hesitation, he quitted his position and tramped over the s