His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Thomas and Janet Gordon.  The latter had evidently been called from his work.  He nodded without speaking, and the two sat gravely down before Eric.

“I have come to see you with regard to your niece, Mr. Gordon,” he said abruptly, realizing that there would be small use in beating about the bush with this grim pair.  “I met your—­I met Neil Gordon in the Connors orchard, and I found that he has told you that I have been meeting Kilmeny there.”

He paused.  Thomas Gordon nodded again; but he did not speak, and he did not remove his steady, piercing eyes from the young man’s flushed countenance.  Janet still sat in a sort of expectant immovability.

“I fear that you have formed an unfavourable opinion of me on this account, Mr. Gordon,” Eric went on.  “But I hardly think I deserve it.  I can explain the matter if you will allow me.  I met your niece accidentally in the orchard three weeks ago and heard her play.  I thought her music very wonderful and I fell into the habit of coming to the orchard in the evenings to hear it.  I had no thought of harming her in any way, Mr. Gordon.  I thought of her as a mere child, and a child who was doubly sacred because of her affliction.  But recently I—­I—­it occurred to me that I was not behaving quite honourably in encouraging her to meet me thus.  Yesterday evening I asked her to bring me here and introduce me to you and her aunt.  We would have come then if you had been at home.  As you were not we arranged to come tonight.”

“I hope you will not refuse me the privilege of seeing your niece, Mr. Gordon,” said Eric eagerly.  “I ask you to allow me to visit her here.  But I do not ask you to receive me as a friend on my own recommendations only.  I will give you references—­men of standing in Charlottetown and Queenslea.  If you refer to them—­”

“I don’t need to do that,” said Thomas Gordon, quietly.  “I know more of you than you think, Master.  I know your father well by reputation and I have seen him.  I know you are a rich man’s son, whatever your whim in teaching a country school may be.  Since you have kept your own counsel about your affairs I supposed you didn’t want your true position generally known, and so I have held my tongue about you.  I know no ill of you, Master, and I think none, now that I believe you were not beguiling Kilmeny to meet you unknown to her friends of set purpose.  But all this doesn’t make you a suitable friend for her, sir—­it makes you all the more unsuitable.  The less she sees of you the better.”

Eric almost started to his feet in an indignant protest; but he swiftly remembered that his only hope of winning Kilmeny lay in bringing Thomas Gordon to another way of thinking.  He had got on better than he had expected so far; he must not now jeopardize what he had gained by rashness or impatience.

“Why do you think so, Mr. Gordon?” he asked, regaining his self-control with an effort.