ne thing you may be quite
sure of, whatever you tell me, it is like telling a brother, and I
shall never repeat it to anyone."

"Well, it is this. That man comes over sometimes to see my father.
I have seen him pass my window, three or four times, and go in by
the garden door into father's study. I did not know who he was, but
it did seem funny his entering by that door, as if he did not want
to be seen by anyone in the house. I did not think anything more
about it, till I saw him just now, then I knew him directly. If I
had seen him before, I should have told you at once, but I don't
think I have."

"I daresay not, Ciceley. He does not wait at table, but is under
the steward, and helps clean the silver. He waits when we have
several friends to dinner. At other times he does not often come
into the room.

"What you tell me is certainly curious. What can he have to say to
your father?"

"I don't know, Charlie. I don't know anything about it. I do think
you ought to know."

"Yes, I think it is a good thing that I should know," Charlie
agreed thoughtfully. "I daresay it is all right, but, at any rate,
I am glad you told me."

"You won't tell your father?" she asked eagerly. "Because, if you
were to speak of it--"

"I shall not tell him. You need not be afraid that what you have
told me will come out. It is curious, and that is all, and I will
look after the fellow a bit. Don't think anything more about it. It
is just the sort of thing it is well to know, but I expect there is
no harm in it, one way or the other. Of course, he must have known
your father before he came to us, and may have business of some
sort with him. He may have a brother, or some other relation, who
wants to take one of your father's farms. Indeed, there are a
hundred things he might want to see him about. But still, I am glad
you have told me."

In his own mind, Charlie thought much more seriously of it than he
pretended. He knew that, at present, his father was engaged heart
and soul in a projected Jacobite rising. He knew that John Dormay
was a bitter Whig. He believed that he had a grudge against his
father, and the general opinion of him was that he was wholly
unscrupulous.

That he should, then, be in secret communication with a servant at
Lynnwood, struck him as a very serious matter, indeed. Charlie was
not yet sixteen, but his close companionship with his father had
rendered him older than most lads of his age. He was as warm a