in earlier days, spoken more
than once of the singularity of his father's attitude. The old
gentleman, however, had no explanation to give. Or, if he had one, he
preferred to keep it to himself. But he petted the boy outrageously,
with some idea of making up for it all, and of showing that he at least
had love enough for two.

And now, as Tristrem gazed in his father's face, he seemed to decipher
something that was not dislike--rather the contented look of one who
learns of an enemy's disgrace, a compound of malice and of glee.

"That was all I had to say," Tristrem added, with his winning smile, as
though apologizing for the lameness of the conclusion. And thereupon he
left the room and went out to consult a jeweller and bear the tidings to
other ears.

For some time he was absurdly happy. His grandfather received the
announcement of the coming marriage with proper enthusiasm. He laughed
sagaciously at Tristrem's glowing descriptions of the bride that was to
be, and was for going to call on the mother and daughter at once, and
was only prevented on learning that they had both left town.

"But I must write," he said, and write he did, two elaborate letters,
couched in that phraseology at once recondite and simple which made our
ancestors the delightful correspondents that they were. The letters were
old-fashioned indeed. Some of the sentences were enlivened with the
eccentricities of orthography which were in vogue in the days of the
_Spectator_. The handwriting was infamous, and the signature on each was
adorned with an enormous flourish. They were not models for a Perfect
Letter Writer, but they were heartfelt and honest, and they served their
purpose very well.

"And, Tristrem," the old gentleman said, when the addresses had been
dried with a shower of sand and the letters despatched, "you must take
her this, with my love. I gave it to your mother on her wedding day, and
now it should go to her." From a little red case he took a diamond
brooch, set in silver, which he polished reflectively on his sleeve.
"She was very sweet, Tristrem, your mother was--a good girl, and a
pretty one. Did I ever tell you about the time----"

And the old gentleman ran on with some anecdote of the dear dead days in
which his heart was tombed. Tristrem listened with the interest of those
that love. He had heard the story, and many others of a similar tenor,
again and again, but, somehow, he never heard them too often. There was
noth