“Then you have not seen her?” said Julius.

“I!  I’m the last person she is likely to seek, if you mean Camilla.”

“She inquired a great deal after you, mother,” interposed Frank, “and said she longed to call, only she did not know if you could see her.  I do hope you will, when she calls on Cecil.  I am sure you would think differently.  Promise me, mother!”

“If she asks for me, I will, my boy,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “but let me look!  You aren’t dressed for dinner!  What will Mistress Cecil say to you!  Ah! it is time you had ladies about the house again.”

The two youths retreated; and Julius remained, looking anxiously and expressively at his mother.

“I am afraid so,” she said; “but I had almost rather he were honestly smitten with the young one than that he believed in Camilla.”

“I should think no one could long do that,” said Julius.

“I don’t know.  He met them when he was nursing that poor young Scotsman at Rockpier, and got fascinated.  He has never been quite the same since that time!” said the mother anxiously.  “I don’t blame him, poor fellow!” she added eagerly, “or mean that he has been a bit less satisfactory—­oh no!  Indeed, it may be my fault for expressing my objection too’ plainly; he has always been reserved with me since, and I never lost the confidence of one of my boys before!”

That Julius knew full well, for he—­as the next eldest at home—­had been the recipient of all his mother’s perplexities at the time of Raymond’s courtship.  Mrs. Poynsett had not been a woman of intimate female friends.  Her sons had served the purpose, and this was perhaps one great element in her almost unbounded influence with them.  Julius was deeply concerned to see her eyes glistening with tears as she spoke of the cloud that had risen between her and Frank.

“There is great hope that this younger one may be worthy,” he said.  “She has had a very different bringing up from her sister, and I did not tell you what I found her doing.  She was teaching a little pig-herd boy to draw.”

“Ah!  I heard Lady Tyrrell was taking to the education of the people line.”

“I want to know who the boy is,” said Julius.  “He called himself Reynolds, and said he lived with granny, but was not a son of Daniel’s or Timothy’s.  He seemed about ten years old.”

“Reynolds?  Then I know who he must be.  Don’t you remember a pretty-looking girl we had in the nursery in Charlie’s time?  His ‘Fan-fan’ he used to call her.”

“Ah, yes, I remember; she was a Reynolds, for both the little boys could be excited to fury if we assumed that she was a fox.  You don’t mean that she went wrong?”

“Not till after she had left us, and seemed to be doing well in another place; but unfortunately she was allowed to have a holiday in the race week, and a day at the course seems to have done the mischief.  Susan can tell you all about it, if you want to know.  She was as broken-hearted as if Fanny had been her own child—­much more than the old mother herself, I fear.”