"Most fathers would refuse to hear all this nonsense, Ronald," he
said, gently. "I listen, and try to convince you by reasonable
arguments that the step you seem bent upon taking is one that
will entail nothing but misery. I have said no angry word to
you, nor shall I do so. I tell you simply it can not be. Dora
Thorne, my lodge keeper's daughter, is no fitting wife for my
son, the heir of Earlescourt. Come with me, Ronald; I will show
you further what I mean."

They went together, the father and son, so like in face yet so
dissimilar in mind. They had been walking up and down the broad
terrace, one of the chief beauties of Earlescourt. The park and
pleasure grounds, with flushed summer beauty, lay smiling around
them. The song of hundreds of birds trilled through the sweet
summer air, the water of many fountains rippled musically, rare
flowers charmed the eye and sent forth sweet perfume; but neither
song of birds nor fragrance of flowers--neither sunshine nor
music--brought any brightness to the grave faces of the father
and son.

With slow steps they quitted the broad terrace, and entered the
hall. They passed through a long suite of magnificent
apartments, up the broad marble staircase, through long
corridors, until they reached the picture gallery, one of the
finest in England. Nearly every great master was represented
there. Murillo, Guido, Raphael, Claude Lorraine, Salvator Rosa,
Correggio, and Tintoretto. The lords of Earlescourt had all
loved pictures, and each of them ad added to the treasures of
that wonderful gallery.