strength and manhood, he was morbidly sensitive of her opinion, and was
never so conscious of his defects as when he was presiding at his own
table, or playing the part of host in her drawing-room, under her
critical eye. And yet Richard Sefton loved his stepmother; he had an
affectionate nature, but in his heart he knew he had no cause to be
grateful to her. She had made him, the lonely, motherless boy, the
scapegoat of his father's deceit and wrongdoing. He had been allowed to
live at The Grange on sufferance, barely tolerated by the proud girl who
had been ignorant of his existence. If he had been an engaging child,
with winning ways, she would soon have become interested in him, but
even then Richard had been plain and awkward, with a shy, reserved
nature, and a hidden strength of affection that no one, not even his
father, guessed. Mrs. Sefton had first disliked, and then neglected him,
until her husband died, and the power had come into Richard's hands.
Since then she had altered her behavior; her interests lay in
conciliating her stepson. She began by recognizing him outwardly as
master, and secretly trying to dominate and guide him. But she soon
found her mistake. Richard was accessible to kindness, and Mrs. Sefton
could have easily ruled him by love, but he was firm against a cold,
aggressive policy. Secretly he shrunk from his stepmother's sarcastic
speeches and severe looks; his heart was wounded by persistent coldness
and misunderstanding, but he had sufficient manliness to prove himself
master, and Mrs. Sefton could not forgive this independence. Richard
took her hard speeches silently, but he brooded over them in a morbid
manner that resembled sullenness. Yet he would have forgiven them
generously in return for one kind look or word. His stepmother had
fascinated and subjugated him in his boyhood, and even in his manhood
it gave him a pang to differ from her; but the truth that was in him,
the real inward manhood, strengthened him for the daily conflicts of
wills.

Poor Richard Sefton! But after all he was less to be pitied than the
woman who found it so difficult to forgive a past wrong, and who could
wreak her displeasure on the innocent.

CHAPTER X.

BESSIE IS INTRODUCED TO BILL SYKES.

"Would you care to see my dogs, Miss Lambert?" asked Richard, and Bessie
only hesitated for a moment.

"Very much. That is, if it will not trouble you."

"Not in the least; they are only just outside in