though many of Dr. An Wolf’s friends who were mothers made much of the pretty, quiet boy, and took him to play with their children, he never seemed to get really intimate with them.  The equality of companionship was wanting.  Boys he knew, and with them he could hold his own and yet be on affectionate terms.  But girls were strange to him, and in their presence he was shy.  With this lack of understanding of the other sex, grew up a sort of awe of it.  His opportunities of this kind of study were so few that the view never could become rectified.

And so it was that from his boyhood up to his twelfth year, Harold’s knowledge of girlhood never increased nor did his awe diminish.  When his father had told him all about his visit to Normanstand and of the invitation which had been extended to him there came first awe, then doubt, then expectation.  Between Harold and his father there was love and trust and sympathy.   The father’s married love so soon cut short found expression towards his child; and between them there had never been even the shadow of a cloud.  When his father told him how pretty the little Stephen was, how dainty, how sweet, he began to picture her in his mind’s eye and to be bashfully excited over meeting her.

His first glimpse of Stephen was, he felt, one that he never could forget.  She had made up her mind that she would let Harold see what she could do.  Harold could fly kites and swim and play cricket; she could not do any of these, but she could ride.  Harold should see her pony, and see her riding him all by herself.  And there would be another pony for Harold, a big, big, big one—she had spoken about its size herself to Topham, the stud-groom.  She had coaxed her daddy into promising that after lunch she should take Harold riding.  To this end she had made ready early.  She had insisted on putting on the red riding habit which Daddy had given her for her birthday, and now she stood on the top of the steps all glorious in hunting pink, with the habit held over her arms, with the tiny hunting-hoots all shiny underneath.  She had no hat on, and her beautiful hair of golden red shone in its glory.  But even it was almost outshone by the joyous flush on her cheeks as she stood waving the little hand that did not hold Daddy’s.  She was certainly a picture to dream of!  Her father’s eyes lost nothing of her dainty beauty.  He was so proud of her that he almost forgot to wish that she had been a boy.  The pleasure he felt in her appearance was increased by the fact that her dress was his own idea.

During luncheon Stephen was fairly silent; she usually chattered all through as freely as a bird sings.  Stephen was silent because the occasion was important.  Besides, Daddy wasn’t all alone, and therefore had not to be cheered up.  Also—this in postscript form—Harold was silent!  In her present frame of mind Harold could do no wrong, and what Harold did was right.  She was unconsciously learning already a lesson from his presence.

That evening when going to bed she came to say good-night to Daddy.  After she had kissed him she also kissed ‘old Mr. Harold,’ as she now called him, and as a matter of course kissed Harold also.  He coloured up at once.  It was the first time a girl had ever kissed him.

The next day from early morning until bed-time was one long joy to Stephen, and there were few things of interest that Harold had not been shown; there were few of the little secrets which had not been shared with him as they went about hand in hand.  Like all manly boys Harold was good to little children and patient with them.  He was content to follow Stephen about and obey all her behests.  He had fallen in love with her to the very bottom of his boyish heart.

When the guests were going, Stephen stood with her father on the steps to see them off.  When the carriage had swept behind the farthest point in the long avenue, and when Harold’s cap waving from the window could no longer be seen, Squire Norman turned to go in, but paused in obedience to the unconscious restraint of Stephen’s hand.  He waited patiently till with a long sigh she turned to him and they went in together.

That night before she went to bed Stephen came and sat on her father’s knee, and after sundry pattings and kissings whispered in his ear:

‘Daddy, wouldn’t it be nice if Harold could come here altogether?  Couldn’t you ask him to?  And old Mr. Harold could come too.  Oh, I wish he was here!’

CHAPTER IV—HAROLD AT NORMANSTAND

Two years afterwards a great blow fell upon Harold.  His father, who had been suffering from repeated attacks of influenza, was, when in the low condition following this, seized with pneumonia, to which in a few days he succumbed.  Harold was heart-broken.  The affection which had been between him and his father had been so consistent that he had never known a time when it was not.

When Squire Norman had returned to the house with him after the funeral, he sat in silence holding the boy’s hand till he had wept his heart out.  By this time the two were old friends, and the boy was not afraid or too shy to break down before him.  There was sufficient of the love of the old generation to begin with trust in the new.

Presently, when the storm was past and Harold had become his own man again, Norman said:

‘And now, Harold, I want you to listen to me.  You know, my dear boy, that I am your father’s oldest friend, and right sure I am that he would approve of what I say.  You must come home with me to live.  I know that in his last hours the great concern of your dear father’s heart would have been for the future of his boy.  And I know, too, that it was a comfort to him to feel that you and I are such friends, and that the son of my dearest old friend would be as a son to me.  We have been friends, you and I, a long time, Harold; and we have learned to trust, and I hope to love, one another.  And you and my little Stephen are such friends already that your coming into the house will be a joy to us all.  Why, long ago, when first you came, she said to me the night you went away: “Daddy, wouldn’t it be nice if Harold could come here altogether?”’

And so Harold An Wolf came back with the Squire to Normanstand, and from that day on became a member of his house, and as a son to him.  Stephen’s delight at his coming was of course largely qualified by her sympathy with his grief; but it would have been hard to give him more comfort than she did in her own pretty way.  Putting her lips to his she kissed him, and holding his big hand in both of her little ones, she whispered softly:

‘Poor Harold!  You and I should love each other, for we have both lost our mother.  And now you have lost your father.  But you must let my dear daddy be yours too!’

At this time Harold was between fourteen and fifteen years old.  He was well educated in so far as private teaching went.  His father had devoted much care to him, so that he was well grounded in all the Academic branches of learning.  He was also, for his years, an expert in most manly exercises.  He could ride anything, shoot straight, fence, run, jump or swim with any boy more than his age and size.

In Normanstand his education was continued by the rector.  The Squire used often to take him with him when he went to ride, or fish, or shoot; frankly telling him that as his daughter was, as yet, too young to be his companion in these matters, he would act as her locum tenens.  His living in the house and his helping as he did in Stephen’s studies made familiarity perpetual.  He was just enough her senior to command her childish obedience; and there were certain qualities in his nature which were eminently calculated to win and keep the respect of women as well as of men.  He was the very incarnation of sincerity, and had now and again, in certain ways, a sublime self-negation which, at times, seemed in startling contrast to a manifestly militant