, and
you are not the kind of fellow a girl would like."

There is something in every man's heart which causes him to feel hurt
when he hears another say something about him that he would have no
hesitation in saying about himself. I had said many times that I was
not a lad whom girls liked, and yet when Wilfred said it I was annoyed.

"After all, it's right," he went on. "It is not fair that you should
have everything and I, nothing. You have the Trewinion name, its
houses, its lands, and its blessings, while I have nothing but my
brains, and people's love."

"There are curses in connexion with Trewinion's heir as well as
blessings," I said. "I am fettered on every hand."

"Curses," he sneered; "all old wives' tales. I wonder at you thinking
about them. Were I the eldest son I would throw all that to the wind,
I would see the world; I would enjoy myself, and spend some of the
hoarded gold of generations."

He looked at me closely as he said this, and I began to feel that
perhaps the old stories were foolishness. All my father had told me
seemed real in the night time, but in daylight it was shadowy and
unreal.

"Do you know about these stories?" I said.

"Yes."

"How?"

He looked a little confused, and then said, hurriedly:

"Oh, I have read the history of our house, and have hunted up the
family documents. You see, while you have been climbing the 'Devil's
Tooth' I have been grinding away at the story of the devil's curses.
But, bah, Roger, what are curses to you? Surely, you can laugh at them
all."

Throughout the conversation I felt that he had some purpose in his
talk. It seemed as though he were sifting me and seeking to read my
thoughts, and so I was silent.

"Do you know anything about little Ruth's family?" he went on.

"No," I replied.

"Her father owned miles of land," he said, "and it is all left to her.
Your estate, Roger, is but a patch on hers. Morton Hall, too, is about
twice as big as this house. Eh, but you were lucky to save her life."

Looking back after a long lapse of years I feel that this is not the
natural talk of a boy of sixteen, and as I write, I ask myself whether
I have not incorrectly recorded our conversation. It is true I only
write from memory; nevertheless, I think I have faithfully described
what was said. Really, Wilfred was never a true boy. He was always
older than I, though born two years later, and when quite a child he
had an old-fashioned way