"I see," said Mrs. Grahame. "But is it possible that Mr. Loftus—"
"Very possible, my dear Mrs. Grahame. As I told him, I have the knife, with his name in full. One hundred dollars he stole; for Elizabeth Beadle's sake, of course I let it go. Her peace of mind is worth more than that, for if she's thoroughly upset, the dinners she orders are a nightmare, positively a nightmare. That is actually one reason why I planned this picnic for to-day, because I knew I should have something with cornstarch in it if I dined at home. Why cornstarch should connect itself with trouble in the feminine mind, I do not know; but such seems to be the case."
Mrs. Grahame laughed heartily at this theory; then, in a few earnest words, she told Colonel Ferrers how deeply interested she and her daughter were in this singular child, and how happy they were in the sudden and great change in his prospects.
"And I know you will love him," she said. "You cannot help loving him, Colonel. He is really a wonderful child."
"Humph!" said the Colonel thoughtfully. Then after a pause, he continued: "I thought I had lost the power of loving, Mrs. Grahame; of loving anything but my flowers, that is, any living creature; lost it forty years ago. But somehow, of late, there has been a stirring of the ground, a movement among the old roots—yes! yes! there may be a little life yet. That child of yours—you never saw Hester Aytoun, Mrs. Grahame?"
"Never," said Mrs. Grahame softly. "She died the year before I came here as a child."
"Precisely," said Colonel Ferrers. "She was a—a very lovely person. Your daughter is extremely like her, my dear madam."
"I fancied as much," said Mrs. Grahame, "from the miniature I found in Uncle Aytoun's collection."
"Ah! yes! the miniature. I remember, there were two. I have the mate to it, Mrs. Grahame. Yes! your daughter is very like her. There was a strong attachment between Hester and myself. Then came a mistake, a misunderstanding, the puff of a feather, a breath of wind; I went away. She was taken suddenly ill, died of a quick consumption. That was forty years ago, but it changed my life, do you see? I have lived alone. Robert Aytoun was a disappointed man. Wealthy Bond,—you know the old story,—Agatha an invalid, Barbara a rigorous woman, strict Calvinist, and so forth. We all grew old together. The neighbours call me a recluse, a bear—I don't know what all; right enough they have been. But now—well, first the lad, there, came—my brother's son. Duty, you know, and all the rest of it; father an unsuccessful genius, angel and saint, with an asinine quality added. That waked me up a little, but only made me growl. But that child of yours, and your own society, if you will allow me to say so—I see things with different eyes, in short. Why, I am actually becoming fond of my milksop; a good lad, eh, Mrs. Grahame? an honest, gentlemanly lad, I think?"
"Indeed, yes!" cried Mrs. Grahame heartily. "A most dear and good lad, Colonel Grahame! I cannot tell you how fond Hilda and I are of him."