Something
in the shadow which overhung it, in his grandfather's weakness and his
father's silence, made him grave and reserved, but he always felt that he
was loved. No playful home-name was ever bestowed on the little lad, but
it did not matter, for when spoken by Alfred Thorne no name could be so
tender as Percival.

The rector's death when the boy was fifteen broke up the only real home he
was destined to know, for Alfred was unable to settle down in any place for
any length of time. While his wife and her father were alive their
influence over him was supreme: he was like the needle drawn aside by a
powerful attraction. But now that they were gone his thoughts oscillated a
while, and then reverted to Brackenhill. For himself he was content--he had
made his choice long ago--but little by little the idea grew up in his mind
that Percival was wronged, for he, at least, was guiltless. He secretly
regretted the defiant fashion in which his boy had been christened, and
made a feeble attempt to prove that, after all, Percy was an old family
name. He succeeded in establishing that a "P. Thorne" had once existed, who
of course might have been Percy, as he might have been Peter or Paul; and
he tried to call his son Percy in memory of this doubtful namesake. But the
three syllables were as dear to the boy as the white flag to a Bourbon.
They identified him with the mother he dimly remembered, and proclaimed to
all the world (that is, to his grandfather) that for her sake he counted
Brackenhill well lost. He triumphed, and his father was proud to be
defeated. To this day he invariably writes himself "Percival Thorne."

Alfred, however, had his way on a more important point, and educated his
son for no profession, because the head of the house needed none. Percival
acquiesced willingly enough, without a thought of the implied protest. He
was indolent, and had little or no ambition. Since daily bread--and,
luckily, rather more than daily bread, for he was no ascetic--was secured
to him, since books were many and the world was wide, he asked nothing
better than to study them. He grew up grave, dreamy and somewhat solitary
in his ways. He seemed to have inherited something of the rector's
self-possessed and rather formal courtesy, and at twenty he looked older
than his age, though his face was as smooth as a girl's.

He was not twenty-one, when his father died suddenly of fever. When the
news reached Brackenhill the old squire wa