and something
in John's bold spirit, and free bright eye, seemed to-day to strike him
more than ordinarily.

"Lad, lad, thee art young. But it won't last--no, it won't last."

He knocked the white ashes out of his pipe--it had been curling in
brave wreaths to the very ceiling two minutes before--and sat musing.

"But about to-morrow?" persisted John, after watching him some little
time. "I could go--I could have gone, without either your knowledge or
permission; but I had rather deal openly with you. You know I always
do. You have been the kindest master--the truest friend to me; I hope,
as long as I live, rarely to oppose, and never to deceive you."

His manner--earnest, yet most respectful--his candid looks, under which
lurked an evident anxiety and pain, might have mollified a harder man
than Abel Fletcher.

"John, why dost thee want to go among those grand folk?"

"Not because they are grand folk. I have other reasons--strong
reasons."

"Be honest. Tell me thy strong reasons."

Here was a strait.

"Why dost thee blush, young man? Is it aught thee art ashamed of?"

"Ashamed! No!"

"Is it a secret, then, the telling of which would be to thee, or to any
else, dishonour?"

"Dishonour!" And the bright eye shot an indignant gleam.

"Then, tell the truth."

"I will. I wish first to find out, for myself, whether Lady Caroline
Brithwood is fitted to have under her charge one who is
young--innocent--good."

"Has she such an one? One thee knows?"

"Yes."

"Man or woman?"

"Woman."

My father turned, and looked John full in the eyes. Stern as that look
was, I traced in it a strange compassion.

"Lad, I thought so. Thee hast found the curse of man's life--woman."

To my amazement, John replied not a syllable. He seemed even as if he
had forgotten himself and his own secret--thus, for what end I knew
not, voluntarily betrayed--so absorbed was he in contemplating the old
man. And truly, in all my life I had never seen such a convulsion pass
over my father's face. It was like as if some one had touched and
revived the torment of a long-hidden, but never-to-be-healed wound.
Not till years after did I understand the full meaning of John's gaze,
or why he was so patient with my father.

The torment passed--ended in violent anger.

"Out with it. Who is deluding thee? Is it a matter of wedlock, or
only--"

"Stop!" John cried; his face all on fire. "The lady--"

"It is a 'lady'! Now