“Dear friend, all is not well with you; I heard it in the night.  But the passages of the house are often dark, though the hills are full of light; yet the Master’s messengers pass to and fro between the high halls bearing lamps; such a messenger I send you.

“You must not be dismayed, either now or later, for all is well.  In our mysteries, when the youth first tastes the chalice, he can hardly keep his mind upon the Red Wine of Life, the Blood of the Earth, as he would fain do, for thinking of the cup, and how tremblingly he holds it, and for fear that the crimson juice be spilt; but all the while, though he sees it not, the priest’s hand encircles the gold stem.

“Martin, my son (for Edward is now yours—­mine no longer), is even nearer the end than when I spoke with you; and you too are nearer, far nearer, though you know it not.  And even in this little letter, I have spoken words to you which, if you had but light to read them, would make all plain.

“The hour is at hand; the clock has jarred and is silent again, but the gear murmurs on in the darkness, waiting for the silver chiming of the bell.

“I am your friend always,
“B. 
“TEHERAN,
“Midsummer.”

“A curious document,” I said.

“Yes,” said Arthur, musingly; “curious too, as literally true.”  And he pointed to the boy holding the lamp.

“Edward,” he said to the boy, “put back that lamp, and come here and speak to me.”

The boy went quickly and promptly, delighting in little acts of obedience, as the young do.

When he returned, Arthur said, “Your father says in this letter that you are to be my son for the future.  Will you? are you content to change?”

“Yes,” said the boy, shyly; but he came and leant against his new father’s shoulder where he sat, and, in the pretty demonstrative manner so natural to unsophisticated children, encircled his arm with his hands.

Arthur put his arm round the boy’s neck, and stroked his hair caressingly.

“Very well,” he said, “then you must always obey me as well as you did just now; and we will make an Englishman of you, and, what is more, a good man.”

And we sat in silence, looking down the valley.  Every now and then an owl called in his flute-like notes across the thickets, and we heard the cry of the seabirds from the creek; and the soft wind came gently up, rustling the fir over our heads, stirring among the leaves of the tall syringa, and wandering off into the warm dusk.

CHAPTER X

The next day I had to return to London on business, taking leave of the strange household with some regret.  Arthur insisted on driving me to the station.  He talked very brightly of his experiment, and argued at some length as to how far association could be depended upon as an element in education; and how to distinguish those natures early that were loyal to association and those to whom it would be of no authority.