"Mr. Chattaway! The farms don't belong to him now, but to me."
George laughed. "Yes, I forgot. I must come to you for it, sir. I want the Upland."
"And you would like to take Maude with it?"
"Oh, yes! I must take her with it."
"Softly, sir. Maude belongs to me, just as the farms do: and I can tell you for your consolation, and you must make the best of it, that I cannot spare her from the Hold. There; that's enough. I have not come home to have my will disputed: I am a true Trevlyn."
A somewhat uncomfortable silence ensued, and lasted until they reached the lodge. Squire Trevlyn entered without ceremony. Old Mark, who was sitting before the hearth apparently in deep thought, turned his head, saw who was coming in, rose as quickly as his rheumatism allowed him, and stared as if he saw an apparition.
"Do you know me, Mark?"
"To my dazed eyes it looks like the Squire," was Mark's answer, slowly shaking his head, as one in perplexity. "But I know it cannot be. I stood at these gates as he was carried out to his last home in Barbrook churchyard. The Squire was older, too."
"The Squire left a son, Mark."
"Sir—sir!" burst forth the old man, after a pause, as the light flashed upon him. "Sir—sir! You surely are never the young heir, Mr. Rupert, we have all mourned as dead?"