thest shelf was
the great original of all creeds--the Book of books.

On this morning, as on most others, Harold Gwynne did not appear until
after prayers were over. His mother read them, as indeed she always did
morning and evening. A stranger might have said, that her doing so was
the last lingering token of her sway as "head of the household."

Harold entered, his countenance bearing the pallid restless look of one
who lies half-dreaming in bed, long after he is awake and ought to have
risen. His mother saw it.

"You are not right, Harold. I had far rather that you rose at six and
studied till nine, as formerly, than that you should dream away the
morning hours, and come down looking as you do now. Forgive me, but it
is not good for you, my son."

She often called him _my son_ with a beautiful simplicity, that reminded
one of the holy Hebrew mothers--of Rebekah or of Hannah.

Harold looked for a moment disconcerted--not angry. "Do not mind me,
mother; I shall go back to study in good time. Let me do as I judge
best."

"Certainly," was all the mother's reply. She reproved--she never
"scolded." Turning the conversation, she directed hers to Captain
Rothesay, while Harold ate his breakfast in silence--a habit not unusual
with him. Immediately afterwards he rose, and prepared to depart for the
day.

"I need not apologise to Captain Rothesay," he said in his own
straightforward manner, which was only saved from the imputation of
bluntness by a certain manly dignity--and contrasted strongly with
the reserved and courtly grace of his guest. "My pursuits can scarcely
interest you, while I know, and _you_ know, what pleasure my mother
takes in your society."

"You will not stay away all this day too, Harold. Surely that is a
little too much to be required, even by Miss Derwent," spoke the quick
impulse of the mother's unconscious jealousy. But she repressed it at
once--even before the sudden flush of anger awakened by her words had
faded from Harold's brow. "Go, my son--your mother never interferes
either with your duties or your pleasures."

Harold took her hand--though with scarce less formality than he did that
of Captain Rothesay; and in a few minutes they saw him gallop down the
hill and across the open country, with a speed beseeming well the age of
five-and-twenty, and the season of a first love.

Mrs. Gwynne looked after him with an intensity of feeling that in any
other woman would have found vent in a t