whar?'

That Mr. Wynn could not answer. He had been indulging some thoughts of a
pamphlet on currency reformation, and went out of the store revolving
them again.

For it is to be noted that the squire felt somewhat like Lycurgus, or
Codrus, or some of those old law-givers and state-founders in this new
settlement of the Creek. He knew himself for the greatest authority
therein, the one whose word bore greatest weight, the referee and
arbitrator in all eases. Plenty of interests had sprung up in his life
such as he could not have dreamed of nine years before, when rooted at
Dunore. His thoughts of the latter had changed since he learned that a
railway had cut the lawn across and altered the avenue and entrance
gate, and the new owner had constructed a piece of ornamental water
where the trout-stream used to run; likewise built a wing to the mansion
in the Tudor style, with a turret at the end. Which items of news, by
completely changing the aspect of the dear old home, as they remembered
Dunore, had done much towards curing the troublesome yearning after it.

Now the squire walked through the broad sloping street of pretty and
clean detached cottages (white, with bright green shutters outside),
fronting fields whence the forest had been pushed back considerably.
Orchards of young trees bloomed about them; the sawmill was noisily
eating its way through planks on the edge of the stream; groups of
'sugar-bush' maples stood about; over all the declining sun, hastening
to immerse itself in the measureless woods westward. 'Pleasant places,'
said Mr. Wynn to himself, quoting old words; 'my lot has fallen in
pleasant places.'

Sitting in the summer parlour of the butternut's shade, he read his
newspaper--a weekly Greenock print, the advertisement side half-filled
with quack medicines, after the manner of such journals in Canada.
Presently an entry in the 'Deaths' arrested his attention.

'Died, at his house in Montreal, on the 11th inst., Captain Reginald
Armytage, late of H.M.'s 115th foot. Friends at a distance will please
accept this intimation.'

Robert sprang to his feet. 'Let me see it, father.'

Now was the twentieth day of the month. 'I wonder she has not written
to some of us--to Linda even,' said he, returning the paper. Then going
over beside his mother, he whispered, 'I shall go to her, mother.'

'Poor Edith! But what could you do, my son?'

'Mother'--after a pause--'shall I not bring you another daughter