"Come, come! You are not such an outsider as all that," said his
grandfather.

The young man smiled a little, but did not speak.

"You don't forget you are a Thorne, I hope?" the other went on. "There are
none too many of us."

"No," said Percival. "I like the old house, and I can assure you, sir, that
I am proud of both my names."

"Well, well! very good names. But shouldn't you call a man a lucky fellow
if he owned a place like this?"

"My opinion wouldn't be half as well worth having as yours," was the reply.
"What do you call yourself, sir?"

"Do you think I own this place?" Mr. Thorne inquired.

"Why, yes--I always supposed so. Don't you?"

"No, I don't!" The answer was almost a snarl. "I'm bailiff, overlooker,
anything you like to call it. My master is at Oxford, at Christ Church. He
won't read, and he can't row, so he is devoting his time to learning how to
get rid of the money I am to save up for him. _I_ own Brackenhill?" He
faced abruptly round. "All that timber is mine, they say; and if I cut down
a stick your aunt Middleton is at me: 'Think of Horace.' The place was
mortgaged when I came into it. I pinched and saved--I freed it--for Horace.
Why shouldn't I mortgage it again if I please--raise money and live royally
till my time comes, eh? They'd all be at me, dinning 'Horace! Horace!' and