Whenever he was sick, or sorry, or naughty—­and Master “Boy” could be exceedingly naughty sometimes—­the voice which had most influence over him, the influence to which he always succumbed, came from the little wheeled chair.  No anger did he ever find there—­no dark looks or sharp tones—­but he found steady, unbending authority; the firm will which never passed over a single fault, or yielded to a single whim.  In his wildest passions of grief or wrath, it was only necessary to say to the child, “If the earl could see you!” to make him pause; and many and many a time, whenever motherly authority, which in this case was weakened by occasional over-indulgence and by an almost morbid terror of the results of the same, failed to conquer the child, Helen used, as a last resource, to bring him in her arms, set him down beside Lord Cairnforth, and leave him there.  She never came back but she found Boy “good”.

“He makes me good, too, I think,” the earl would say now and then, “for he makes me happy.”

It was true.  Lord Cairnforth never looked otherwise than happy when he had beside him that little blossom of hope of the new generation—­ Helen’s child.

As years went by, though he still lived alone at the Castle, it was by no means the secluded life of his youth and early manhood.  He gradually gathered about him neighbors and friends.  He filled his house occasionally with guests, of his own rank and of all ranks; people notable and worthy to be known.  He became a “patron,” as they called it in those days, of art and literature, and assembled around him all who, for his pleasure and their own benefit, chose to enjoy his hospitality.

In a quiet way, for he disliked public show, he was likewise what was termed a “philanthropist,” but always on the system which he had learned in his boyhood from Helen and Mr. Cardross, that “charity begins at home;” with the father who guides well his own household; the minister whose footstep is welcomed at every door in his own parish; the proprietor whose just, wise, and merciful rule make him sovereign absolute in his own estate.  This last especially was the character given along all the country-side to the Earl of Cairnforth.

His was not a sad existence; far from it.  None who knew him, and certainly none who ever staid long with him in his own home, went away with that impression.  He enjoyed what he called “a sunshiny life”—­ having sunshiny faces about him; people who knew how to accept the sweet and endure the bitter; to see the heavenly side even of sorrow; to do good to all, and receive good from all; avoiding all envies, jealousies, angers, and strifes, and following out literally the apostolic command, “As much as in you lies, live peaceably with all men.”

And so the earl was, in the best sense of the word, popular.  Every body liked him, and he liked every body.  But deep in his heart—­ay, deeper than any of these his friends and acquaintance ever dreamed—­ steadying and strengthening it, keeping it warm for all human uses, yet calm with the quiet sadness of an eternal want, lay all those emotions which are not likings, but loves; not sympathies, but passions; but which with him were to be, in this world, forever dormant and unfulfilled.