d their heart-break, and held their creed so firmly that
they felt no need of any text to remind them of the resurrection of the
dead.

Neal Ward, like his father, had books and papers before him, but his
attention was not fixed on them. Now and then, with spasmodic energy,
he copied a passage from the page before him. Then, with a sigh, he laid
his pen down and gazed out of the window. His father took no notice of
the young man's want of application. No words passed between the two.
Then suddenly the silence was broken by a cry from the field below the
house--

"Hello! Neal! Neal Ward! Hello! Are you there?"

The young man started to his feet and made a step to the window.
Then turning, he looked at his father. The frown on Micah Ward's brow
deepened slightly. Otherwise he made no sign of having heard the cry.
He went on writing in his careful, deliberate manner. The voice from
outside reached the room again.

"Neal! Neal Ward! Come out. What right has a man to shut himself indoors
on a day like this?"

Neal stood irresolute, looking at his father. At last he spoke.

"Can I go out, father? I have almost finished the transcription of the
passage which you set me."

Micah Ward laid down his pen, sprinkled sand on his paper, and looked
up. He gazed steadily at his son. The young man's eyes dropped. He
repeated his question in a voice that was nearly trembling.

"Can I go out, father?"

"Who is it calls you, Neal?"

"It is Maurice St. Clair."

"Maurice St. Clair," repeated Micah Ward. Then, with a note of deep
scorn in his voice, "The Hon. Maurice St. Clair, the son of Lord
Dun-severic. Are you to do his bidding, to run like a dog when he calls
you?"

"He is my friend, father."

"Is he a fit friend for you? Have I not told you that his people and our
people are enemies the one to the other? That the oppression wherewith
they oppress us--but there. Go, since you want to go. You do not
understand as yet. Some day you will understand."

Neal left the room without haste, closing the door quietly. Once free of
his father's presence he seized a cap and ran from the house. Half-way
between him and the high road, knee deep in meadow grass, stood Maurice
St. Clair.

"Come along, come along quick," he shouted. "I had nearly given up hope
of getting you out. We're off for a day's fishing to Rackle Roy. We'll
bag a pigeon or two at the mouth of the cave before we land. Brown-Eyes
is down on the road waiting for us