The evening of his arrival he stood with his grandfather on the terrace looking at the wide prospect which lay at their feet—­ample fields and meadows, and the silvery flash of water through the willows.  Then he turned, folded his arms and coolly surveyed Brackenhill itself from end to end.  Mr. Thorne watched him, expecting some word, but when none came, and Percival’s eyes wandered upward to the soft evening sky, where a glimmering star hung like a lamp above the old gray manor-house, he said, with some amusement, “Well, and what is your opinion?”

Percival came down to earth with the greatest promptitude:  “It’s a beautiful place.  I’m glad to see it.  I like looking over old houses.”

“Like looking over old houses?  As if it were merely a show!  Isn’t Brackenhill more to you than any other old house?” demanded Mr. Thorne.

“Oh, well, perhaps,” Percival allowed:  “I have heard my father talk of it of course.”

“Come, come!  You are not such an outsider as all that,” said his grandfather.

The young man smiled a little, but did not speak.

“You don’t forget you are a Thorne, I hope?” the other went on.  “There are none too many of us.”

“No,” said Percival.  “I like the old house, and I can assure you, sir, that I am proud of both my names.”

“Well, well! very good names.  But shouldn’t you call a man a lucky fellow if he owned a place like this?”

“My opinion wouldn’t be half as well worth having as yours,” was the reply.  “What do you call yourself, sir?”

“Do you think I own this place?” Mr. Thorne inquired.

“Why, yes—­I always supposed so.  Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” The answer was almost a snarl.  “I’m bailiff, overlooker, anything you like to call it.  My master is at Oxford, at Christ Church.  He won’t read, and he can’t row, so he is devoting his time to learning how to get rid of the money I am to save up for him. I own Brackenhill?” He faced abruptly round.  “All that timber is mine, they say; and if I cut down a stick your aunt Middleton is at me:  ‘Think of Horace.’  The place was mortgaged when I came into it.  I pinched and saved—­I freed it—­for Horace.  Why shouldn’t I mortgage it again if I please—­raise money and live royally till my time comes, eh?  They’d all be at me, dinning ‘Horace!  Horace!’ and my duty to those who come after me, into my ears.  Look at the drawing-room furniture!”

“The prettiest old room I ever saw,” said Percival.

“Ah! you’re right there.  But my sister doesn’t think so.  It’s shabby, she would tell you.  But does she ask me to furnish it for her?  No, no, it isn’t worth while:  mine is such a short lease.  When Horace marries and comes into his inheritance, of course it must be done up.  It would be a pity to waste money about it now, especially as there’s a bit of land lies between two farms of mine, and if I don’t go spending a lot in follies, I can buy it.  Think of that!  I can buy it—­for Horace!”