ng more, she was not
the less his friend. Nor was it only his powerful animation, generosity,
and grace that won them.

There occurred when I was a little past twenty, already much in his
confidence, one of those strange crucial events which try a man publicly,
and bring out whatever can be said for and against him. A young Welsh
heiress fell in love with him. She was, I think, seven or eight months
younger than myself, a handsome, intelligent, high-spirited girl, rather
wanting in polish, and perhaps in the protecting sense of decorum. She
was well-born, of course--she was Welsh. She was really well-bred too,
though somewhat brusque. The young lady fell hopelessly in love with my
father at Bath. She gave out that he was not to be for one moment accused
of having encouraged her by secret addresses. It was her unsolicited
avowal--thought by my aunt Dorothy immodest, not by me--that she
preferred him to all living men. Her name was Anna Penrhys. The squire
one morning received a letter from her family, requesting him to furnish
them with information as to the antecedents of a gentleman calling
himself Augustus Fitz-George Frederick William Richmond Guelph Roy, for
purposes which would, they assured him, warrant the inquiry. He was for
throwing the letter aside, shouting that he thanked his God he was
unacquainted with anybody on earth with such an infernal list of names as
that. Roy! Who knew anything of Roy?

'It happens to be my father's present name,' said I.

'It sounds to me like the name of one of those blackguard adventurers who
creep into families to catch the fools,' pursued the squire, not hearing
me with his eyes.

'The letter at least must be answered,' my aunt Dorothy said.

'It shall be answered!' the squire worked himself up to roar. He wrote a
reply, the contents of which I could guess at from my aunt's refusal to
let me be present at the discussion of it. The letter despatched was
written by her, with his signature. Her eyes glittered for a whole day.

Then came a statement of the young lady's case from Bath.

'Look at that! look at that!' cried the squire, and went on, 'Look at
that!' in a muffled way. There was a touch of dignity in his unforced
anger.

My aunt winced displeasingly to my sight: 'I see nothing to astonish
one.'

'Nothing to astonish one!' The squire set his mouth in imitation of her.

'You see nothing to astonish one? Well, ma'am, when a man grows old
enough to be a grandfath