This was signed, “Allan Roscoe.”

“So it seems my uncle is the trespasser,” said Hector.  “It is he who takes the responsibility.  I will go and speak to him at once.”

“Wait a minute!  There comes Master Guy, returning from his ride.  You can have it out with him first.”

In fact, Hector had only to look down the avenue to see the rapid approach of the buggy.  Guy held the reins, and was seated in the driver’s seat with all the air of a master.  The sight aggravated Hector, and not without reason.  He waited until Guy, flinging the reins to Edward, leaped from the buggy, then he thought it time to speak.

“Guy,” he said, calmly, “it seems to me that you owe me an apology.”

“Oh, I do, do I?” sneered Guy.  “What for, let me ask?”

“You have driven out in my buggy, without asking my permission.”

“Oh, it’s your buggy, is it?” said Guy, with another sneer.

“Of course it is.  You know that as well as I do.”

“I don’t know it at all.”

“Then I inform you of it.  I don’t want to be selfish; I am willing that you should ride out in it occasionally; but I insist upon your asking my permission.”

Guy listened to these words with a sneer upon his face.  He was about the same age and size as Hector, but his features were mean and insignificant, and there was a shifty look in his eye that stamped him as unreliable.  He did not look like the Roscoes, though in many respects he was in disposition and character similar to his father.

“It strikes me,” he said, with an unpleasant smile, “that you’re taking a little too much upon yourself, Hector Roscoe.  The buggy is no more yours than mine.”

“What do you say, Edward?” said Hector, appealing to the coachman.

“I say that the buggy is yours, and the horse is yours, and so I told Master Guy, but he wouldn’t take no notice of it.”

“Do you hear that, Guy?”

“Yes, I do; and that’s what I think of it,” answered Guy, snapping his fingers.  “My father gave me permission to ride out in it, and I’ve got just as much right to it as you, and perhaps more.”

“You know better, Guy,” said Hector, indignantly; “and I warn you not to interfere with my rights hereafter.”

“Suppose I do?” sneered Guy.

“Then I shall be under the necessity of giving you a lesson,” said Hector, calmly.

“You will, will you?  You’ll give me a lesson?” repeated Guy, nodding vigorously.  “Who are you, I’d like to know?”

“If you don’t know, I can tell you.”

“Tell me, then.”

“I am Hector Roscoe, the owner of Roscoe Hall.  Whether your father is to be my guardian or not, I don’t know; but there are limits to the power of a guardian, and I hope he won’t go too far.”

“Hear the boy talk!” said Guy, contemptuously.

“I wish to treat my uncle with becoming respect; but he is a newcomer here—­I never saw him till three months since—­and he has no right to come here, and take from me all my privileges.  We can all live at peace together, and I hope we shall; but he must treat me well.”