"Howat," he pronounced, obviously addressing the elder Winscombe, "is a
black Penny. That is what we call them in our family. You see, the
Pennys, some hundreds of years back, acquired a strong Welsh strain. I
take it you are familiar with the Welsh--a solitary-living, dark lot.
Unamenable to influence, reflect their country, I suppose; but lovers
of music. I have a touch of that. Now any one would think that such a
blood, so long ago, would have spread out, been diluted, in a thick
English stock like the Pennys; or at least that we would all have had a
little, here and there. But nothing of the sort; it sinks entirely out
of sight for two or three and sometimes four generations; and then
appears solid, in one individual, as unslacked as the pure, original
thing. The last one was burned as a heretic in Mary's day; although I
believe he would have equally stayed Catholic if the affair had been the
other way around. Opposition's their breath. This boy--"

"You must not figure to yourself, Mr. Winscombe," Mrs. Penny's even
voice admirably cut in, "that the black is a word of reproach. I think
we are both at times at a loss with Howat, he is so different from us,
from the girls; but he is truly remarkable. I have an unusual affection
for him; really, his honesty is extraordinary."

He ought, he knew, either follow the others into the drawing room or
move farther away. His father's explanation repelled him; but his
mother's capital defence--it amounted to that--made it evident to him
that he should, by his presence, give her what support he could.

At the fireplace Gilbert Penny was lost in conversational depths with
Mr. Winscombe. About the opening, now closed for the introduction of a
hearth stove, were tiles picturing in gay glazes the pastoral history