"Good-bye and thanks," said the tutor, clapping his heels to the
animal's flanks; "you shall have him back safe."

And he plunged away, leaving the gaping son of the soil, with his half-
crown in his hand, to the laborious task of hoisting his lower jaw back
into its normal position.

Dr Brandram, in whose medical preserves Maxfield Manor lay, was
solacing himself with an after-dinner pipe in his little cottage at
Yeld, when the tutor, crusted in snow from head to foot, broke
unceremoniously on his privacy. An intuition told the doctor what was
the matter before even his visitor could say--

"The Squire has had a stroke. Come at once."

The doctor put down his pipe, and, with a sigh, kicked off his cosy
slippers.

"He has chosen a bad night, Armstrong. How are the roads?"

"A foot deep. Shall you drive or ride?"

"I never ride."

"You'll need both horses to get through, and I can lend you a spent
third."

"Thank you. How did he look?"

"He knew what had happened, I think, but could not speak or move."

"Of course. Suppose you and I do the latter, and postpone the former
till we are under weigh."

In less than ten minutes, the doctor's gig was trundling through the
snow, with three horses to drag it, and Mr Armstrong in charge of the
reins.

"Yes," said the doctor, "he's been leading up to this for a long time,
as you have probably observed."

"I can't say I have," said Mr Armstrong.

"Ah! well, you've only known him a year. I knew him twenty years ago."

"Ah!" replied the tutor, chirruping encouragement to the horses.

"Roger Ingleton's life twenty years ago was a life to make an insurance
company cheerful," said the doctor.

"What changed it?"

"He had a scape-grace son. They fell out--there was a furious quarrel--
and one day the father and son--ugh!--fought, with clenched fists, sir,
like two--two costermongers!--and the boy did not get the best of it.
He left home, and no wonder, and was never heard of since. Faugh! it
was a sickening business."

"That explains what he was saying this afternoon about a son he had
once. He was telling me about it when he was struck."

"Ay! that blow has been owing him for twenty years. It is the last
round of the fight, Armstrong. But," continued he, "this is all a
secret. No one knows it at Maxfield. I doubt if your pupil so much as
imagines he ever had a brother."

"He has never mentioned it to me," said the tutor.

"No need that he s