“I will tell you, sir,” said Nicholas.  “He was in the house with my father when—­when he ran away.  And I said that if he ever spoke of it to any one, I would kill him.”

For a while the clergyman was silent, gazing with a strange tenderness at the lad, whose face was averted.

“And you, David?” he said presently.

“I—­I never mean to tell, sir.  But I was not to be frightened.”

“Quite right, my lad,” said the clergyman, so kindly that it sent a strange thrill through me.  Nicholas looked up quickly.

“You won’t tell?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“You can let me go now, Mr. Mason,” said he.  Mr. Mason did.  And he came over and sat beside me, but said nothing more.

After a while Mr. Mason cleared his throat.

“Nicholas,” said he, “when you grow older you will understand these matters better.  Your father went away to join the side he believes in, the side we all believe in—­the King’s side.”

“Did he ever pretend to like the other side?” asked Nick, quickly.

“When you grow older you will know his motives,” answered the clergyman, gently.  “Until then; you must trust him.”

“You never pretended,” cried Nick.

“Thank God I never was forced to do so,” said the clergyman, fervently.

It is wonderful that the conditions of our existence may wholly change without a seeming strangeness.  After many years only vivid snatches of what I saw and heard and did at Temple Bow come back to me.  I understood but little the meaning of the seigniorial life there.  My chief wonder now is that its golden surface was not more troubled by the winds then brewing.  It was a new life to me, one that I had not dreamed of.

After that first falling out, Nick and I became inseparable.  Far slower than he in my likes and dislikes, he soon became a passion with me.  Even as a boy, he did everything with a grace unsurpassed; the dash and daring of his pranks took one’s breath; his generosity to those he loved was prodigal.  Nor did he ever miss a chance to score those under his displeasure.  At times he was reckless beyond words to describe, and again he would fall sober for a day.  He could be cruel and tender in the same hour; abandoned and freezing in his dignity.  He had an old negro mammy whose worship for him and his possessions was idolatry.  I can hear her now calling and calling, “Marse Nick, honey, yo’ supper’s done got cole,” as she searched patiently among the magnolias.  And suddenly there would be a shout, and Mammy’s turban go flying from her woolly head, or Mammy herself would be dragged down from behind and sat upon.

We had our supper, Nick and I, at twilight, in the children’s dining room.  A little white room, unevenly panelled, the silver candlesticks and yellow flames fantastically reflected in the mirrors between the deep windows, and the moths and June-bugs tilting at the lights.  We sat at a little mahogany table eating porridge and cream from round blue bowls, with Mammy to wait on us.  Sometimes there floated in upon us the hum of revelry from the great drawing-room where Madame had her company.  Often the good Mr. Mason would come in to us (he cared little for the parties), and talk to us of our day’s doings.  Nick had his lessons from the clergyman in the winter time.