aspect--a gracious one, also, for under a monster elm before the
terrace was found the master and owner, Mr. Archibald Touris. He
greeted the youths with a manner meant to exhibit the expansive heart
of a country gentleman.

"You've found each other out, have you? Why, you look born to be
friends! That's as it should be.--And what, Alexander, do you think of
Black Hill?"

"It looks finely a rich man's place, sir."

Mr. Touris laughed at his country bluntness, but did not take the
tribute amiss. "Not so rich--not so mighty rich. But enough, enough!
If Ian here behaves himself he'll have enough!" A master workman
called him away. He went with a large wave of the hand. "Make yourself
at home, Alexander! Take him, Ian, to see your aunt Alison." He was
gone with the workman.

"I'll take you there presently," said Ian. "I'm fond of Aunt
Alison--you'll like her, too--but she'll keep. Let's go see my mare
Fatima, and then my room."

Fatima was a most beautiful young, snowy Arabian. Alexander sighed
with delight when they led her out from her stable and she walked
about with Ian beside her, and when presently Ian mounted she curveted
and caracoled. Ian and she suited each other. Indefinably, there was
about him, too, something Eastern. The two went to and fro, the mare's
hoofs striking music from the flags. Behind them ran a gray range of
buildings overtopped by bushy willows. Alexander sat on a stone bench,
hugged his knees, and felt true love for the sight. Ian had come to