ract of
land that he called his own, and left, together with immense sums of
money, to his son, subject only to a jointure for his wife. It is hard
to blame the tired old man if he felt, even with the homily ringing in
his ears, that he had not played his part in the world badly.

Millstead Manor was indeed the sort of place to raise a doubt as to the
utter vanity of riches. It was situated hard by the little village of
Millstead, that lies some forty miles or so northwest of London, in the
middle of rich country. The neighborhood afforded shooting, fishing, and
hunting, if not the best of their kind, yet good enough to satisfy
reasonable people. The park was large and well wooded; the house had
insisted on remaining picturesque in spite of Mr. Lane's improvements,
and by virtue of an indelible stamp of antiquity had carried its point.
A house that dates from Elizabeth is not to be entirely put to shame by
one or two unblushing French windows and other trifling barbarities of
that description, more especially when it is kept in countenance by a
little church of still greater age, nestling under its wing in a manner
that recalled the good old days when the lord of the manor was lord of
the souls and bodies of his tenants. Even old Mr. Lane had been mellowed
by the influence of his new home, and before his death had come to play
the part of Squire far more respectably than might be imagined. Eugene
sustained the _role_ with the graceful indolence and careless efficiency
that marked most of his doings.

He stood one Saturday morning in the latter part of July on the steps
that led from the terrace to the lawn, holding a letter in his hand and
softly whistling. In appearance he was not, it must be admitted, an
ideal Squire, for he was but a trifle above middle height, rather
slight, and with the little stoop that tells of the man who is town-bred
and by nature more given to indoor than outdoor exercises; but he was a
good-looking fellow for all that, with a bright humorous face,--though
at this moment rather a bored one,--large eyes set well apart, and his
proper allowance of brown hair and white teeth. Altogether, it may
safely be said that, not even Sir Roderick's nose could have sniffed the
workhouse in the young master of Millstead Manor.

Still whistling, Eugene descended the steps and approached a group of
people sitting under a large copper-beech tree. A still, hot summer
morning does not incline the mind or the bo