“What for?”

Alexander paused and gazed at Ian, then gave into his keeping the great secret.  “Alchemy.  I’m trying to change lead into gold.”

Ian thrilled.  “I’ll come!  I’ll ride over.  I’ve a beautiful mare.”

“It’s not eight miles—­”

“I’ll come.  We’re just in at Black Hill, you see, and I’ve had no time to make a place like that!  But I’ll show you my room.  Here’s the park gate.”

They walked up an avenue overarched by elms, to a house old but not so old, once half-ruinous, but now mended and being mended, enlarged, and decorated, the aim a spacious place alike venerable and modern.  Workmen yet swarmed about it.  The whole presented a busy, cheerful aspect—­a gracious one, also, for under a monster elm before the terrace was found the master and owner, Mr. Archibald Touris.  He greeted the youths with a manner meant to exhibit the expansive heart of a country gentleman.

“You’ve found each other out, have you?  Why, you look born to be friends!  That’s as it should be.—­And what, Alexander, do you think of Black Hill?”

“It looks finely a rich man’s place, sir.”

Mr. Touris laughed at his country bluntness, but did not take the tribute amiss.  “Not so rich—­not so mighty rich.  But enough, enough!  If Ian here behaves himself he’ll have enough!” A master workman called him away.  He went with a large wave of the hand.  “Make yourself at home, Alexander!  Take him, Ian, to see your aunt Alison.”  He was gone with the workman.

“I’ll take you there presently,” said Ian.  “I’m fond of Aunt Alison—­you’ll like her, too—­but she’ll keep.  Let’s go see my mare Fatima, and then my room.”

Fatima was a most beautiful young, snowy Arabian.  Alexander sighed with delight when they led her out from her stable and she walked about with Ian beside her, and when presently Ian mounted she curveted and caracoled.  Ian and she suited each other.  Indefinably, there was about him, too, something Eastern.  The two went to and fro, the mare’s hoofs striking music from the flags.  Behind them ran a gray range of buildings overtopped by bushy willows.  Alexander sat on a stone bench, hugged his knees, and felt true love for the sight.  Ian had come to him like a gift from the blue.

Ian dismounted, and they watched Fatima disappear into her stall.  “Come now and see the house.”

The house was large and cumbered with furniture too much and too rich for the Scotch countryside.  Ian’s room had a great, rich bed and a dressing-table that drew from Alexander a whistle, contemplative and scornful.  But there were other matters besides luxury of couch and toilet.  Slung against the wall appeared a fine carbine, the pistols and sword of Ian’s father, and a wonderful long, twisted, and damascened knife or dirk—­creese, Ian called it—­that had come in some trading-ship of his uncle’s.  And he had books in a small closet room, and a picture that the two stood before.