I picked myself out of the ashes, where my hair had been singed a trifle
by the embers, in time to see the Major soundly cuff his offspring, and
then lead him by the arm, still screaming, out of the door. There Bob
enveloped him in his arms, struggling and kicking, and put him on
the horse.

Major Cross, returning for a final farewell word, gave me a shilling as a
salve for my hurts, physical and mental, and said:

"I am sorry to have so ill-tempered a son. He cannot brook denial, when
once he fixes his heart on a thing. However, he'll get that beaten out of
him before he's done with the world. And so, Tom, dear, dear old comrade,
a last good-by. God bless you, Tom! Farewell."

"God bless you--and yours, _mon frere_!"

We stood, Mr. Stewart and I, at the outer gate, and watched them down the
river road, until the jutting headland intervened. As we walked slowly
back toward the house, my guardian said, as if talking partly to himself:

"There is nothing clearer in natural law than that sons inherit from their
mothers. I know of only two cases in all history where an able man had a
father superior in brain and energy to the mother--Martin Luther and the
present King of Prussia. Perhaps it was all for the best."

To this I of course offered no answer, but trudged along through the
melting snow by his side.

Presently, as we reached the house, he stopped and looked the log