bird like myself. I have been accustomed to rise at dawn in India, and to drop old habits is difficult, is it not? Yes?"
"India?" gasped the Rector, before Mallow could reply. "Do you come from India?"
"Yes. I arrived in England only a few weeks ago."
"Your name is Carson?"
"Angus Carson, at your service;" and the young man clicked his heels and bowed.
"The son of my old friend, Alfred Carson?" pursued the Rector, who was recovering his self-control somewhat.
"Yes. Are you Mr. Brock? Are you my father's friend? Yes?"
"I am," said the other, in a voice of emotion. "Ah! no wonder I felt queer when I saw your face. It was as if the dead were come to life."
"I am supposed to be very like my father," returned Carson, easily. "I don't wonder you were startled. My dear father often spoke to me of your devotion to him."
"Yes, yes; poor Alfred!" The Rector seated himself on a flat tombstone and fought down his natural feelings. "I wish I had known you were here, Angus; your great resemblance to your father has given me a shock. I feel ill--I--I feel very ill."
"Shall I go to the rectory and fetch you some brandy?" said Mallow, who was sorry for the old man.
"If--if you would be so kind," muttered Mr. Brock, burying his face in his handkerchief. "Poor Alfred!"--and his emotion again overcame him. Carson stood by and looked sympathetically on at this proof of a long-remembered friendship; but he made no remark, until Laurence returned from his errand.
"Thank you, Mr. Mallow; you are most kind," said Brock, gratefully, as he swallowed the brandy.
"Believe me, I am sorry my sudden appearance should have so alarmed you," said Carson, politely. "Did you know that I was coming to this place? No?"
"Certainly, I was aware of it," answered the Rector, in a stronger voice, "for Miss Slarge read me a letter from Mrs. Purcell. I also saw the communication you addressed to Olive from Bombay, advising her of your coming. But I have been absent, and I returned only last night; and the sight of your face--your extraordinary resemblance to your father--startled me not a little."
"Such emotion is natural," said Mallow; "the more so as you were so attached to Mr. Carson."
Mr. Brock rose and sighed. "He was my dearest friend," he said sadly; "and even thirty years have not banished his memory from my heart. I feel like a father to you, Angus--you must permit me to call you Angus?"
"I beg of you to do so," answered the young man, gracefully, giving his left hand to the Rector. "Who should do so, if not you, the oldest friend of my father, and the guardian of my dearest Olive."
Mallow bit his lip, and turned away to conceal his anger, for after all, being engaged to her, the man had every right to speak of Olive in affectionate terms. Angus, who had long since discovered that the Irishman was his rival, smiled blandly at this exhibition--for it did not escape him--of jealousy. But he had sufficient discretion to make no remark. With an inclusive nod to both men, Laurence walked away, and his feelings on climbing the hill on his way home were anything but enviable. He felt that fate was dealing hardly by him.
"Have you hurt your hand?" asked Brock, when the unnecessary third person had vanished through the gate.
"Yes, many months ago while shooting," replied Carson. "Indeed, it was this hand that detained me from paying my respects to Olive and yourself earlier. I arrived on the twenty-fourth of last month, and intended coming here at once; but my hand was so painful that I waited in London to see a surgeon about it."
"Where did you stay?" asked the Rector.
"With my friend, Major Semberry, in St. James's Street. Semberry took rooms there, and I made it my home. Indeed, my luggage is there at the present moment."
"St. James's Street!"
"Yes; that is, a little street off it--Duke Street, I believe it is called, No. 80B."
"No. 80B, Duke Street, St. James's," repeated Brock, slowly. "The first address you gave me was somewhat misleading."
"My ignorance of social customs in your large city," replied Mr. Carson, with a charming smile. "I am quite a barbarian, am I not? Yes?"
"Indeed, no; if Olive is not pleased with you she will be hard to satisfy."
"I think she likes me, Mr. Brock, but she does not love me."
"Oh, love is a matter of custom with young girls. You will gain it sooner or later--if not before marriage, then afterwards."
"I fear Olive has no love to give me," said Carson, shaking his head. "It is my impression that she has already given her heart to that gentleman who has just left us."
"To Mallow? Nonsense. She looks upon him as a friend."
"As a very dear friend, don't you think? Yes?"
"That may be," rejoined Mr. Brock, gravely. "She has known him for many years, for Mallow lived here a considerable time as tutor to Lord Aldean. But I am sure Olive is not the girl to disregard her father's dying wish. She will become your wife, Angus; be sure of that."
"I shall endeavour to deserve my good fortune, Mr. Brock."
"By the way, Angus, did your father send no message to me?"
"He spoke of you kindly and tenderly on his death-bed," replied Angus, gently; "but he sent no message."
"He gave you no letter for me?"
"None. Had he done so, I would have sent it on to you."
"I suppose he told you about our early friendship?"
"Well, no; he spoke always of you with affection, yet he gave me no details of your association with him."
"Yet Bellairs and I were his nearest and dearest," sighed the Rector; "but I should not complain. A man might forget many things in thirty years. Poor Alfred!--he was one of the best men I ever knew. I hope you will try to emulate his virtues, Angus."
"I shall do my best, Mr. Brock," said Carson, glancing at his watch. "It is getting near breakfast-time. I must return to the Manor House."
"No," said the Rector, taking the young man by the arm. "I cannot so readily part with the son of my old friend, who brings back all my youth to me. You must breakfast with me."
This invitation did not appear to please Carson over much, and he would fain have declined it, but the Rector was peremptory; so, in the end, he accepted. Mr. Brock was pleased, and showed his pleasure.
"I am a bachelor," he said, showing his young friend the way through the quick-set hedge; "but I have an excellent housekeeper and an admirable cook. You shall have a good breakfast, Angus."
"Well, sir, I bring a good appetite," answered Carson; and, arm-in-arm with his father's old associate, he passed into the rectory grounds, making himself as agreeable as he knew how.
Mr. Brock became rejuvenated in the presence of his old friend's son, and questioned the young man closely concerning the dead-and-gone companion of his youth. It was a merry breakfast enough in one way; yet in another it was sad. In the hereafter it afforded Mr. Brock much food for reflection. But, if a man will be so rash as to raise the ghost of a dead past, he cannot expect to be other than melancholy.
Honest enough to avow that his suspicions concerning Carson had proved baseless, Mallow was not patient or amiable enough to discuss the matter with Aldean. After a short explanation Laurence passed on to more agreeable subjects, and his friend was in no way unwilling to leave unprofitable argument for pleasant conversation. The Irishman concealed his disappointment, and, deciding that there was little sense in crying over spilt milk, made himself as entertaining as possible. He enjoyed his meal with Aldean, after which--in completion of his cure, as Mallow put it--they rode together. Returning late in the afternoon, they came upon the residence of Dr. Drabble. A slatternly-looking dwelling