“May I go and look for them?” said Philip, springing up.
“If you are quite sure you have eaten all the cream you want,” said his aunt. “But don’t try to find your way; get that servant with the cockney accent to show you again.”
Off ran Philip, glad to be of service; and the party, to give old Peter an opportunity to lunch, adjourned to an arbor in view, which was near enough to a little natural lake for the children to run to the margin with crumbs for the stately swans that were sailing about. The rector and Dr. Norton sat talking rather sadly of the days when old Lord Ashden was living; then they spoke of his son, and of the sad ending of his short and happy married life, and in the midst of their reminiscences they were surprised by the sudden appearance of the one they had been speaking of--Lord Ashden himself. He had returned a day before he expected, and had come out to look for them. His greeting to his old teacher and fellow-pupil was warm and cordial, and after paying his respects to the ladies he joined them in recalling incidents and exploits of his boyish days.
“And you have taken poor Philip’s child, I hear. It was brave and kind of you to acknowledge him,” said he, looking affectionately at the rector.
“It was a kindness we should have shown before,” said Dr. Norton.
“Where is the boy? Does he inherit his father’s genius and beauty?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Delia, turning her sweet, benevolent face upon the speaker, “our little Philip seems to have taken every pleasant trait of his father’s, and a sweeter child I never saw.”
“I must see Philip’s boy,” said Lord Ashden, with a sigh of retrospection. “Poor Philip! He literally threw away his life; and such a life--so full of hope and promise. I hope this boy’s life may be a happier one than his father’s was.” And he strode off toward the house, where they told him Philip would be found, impelled by a feeling of real interest, the first he had experienced in many sad and weary months.
Following Mrs. Seldon’s directions, Lord Ashden climbed the narrow stairs which led to the haunted chamber. And as he approached the room he was surprised to hear a faint tinkling sound as of some one running his fingers over the keys of an old piano. Lord Ashden was puzzled, and approaching more softly he gently pushed open the door of the room and looked within. It was a pretty picture upon which his eyes rested, and one which he long remembered. A fair, slender lad with a pale, expressive face, which reminded the silent on-looker of the well-known portrait of Milton at the age of twelve, was standing beside the old harp which had belonged to the poor, foolish maid of honor. He was touching the dusty strings with the greatest care and reverence, and a smile of perfect delight played about his sensitive, mobile mouth. But Lord Ashden did not remain long unobserved, for a shaggy little dog which had been lying quietly at the boy’s feet raised his head, and, perceiving the stranger, began to bark fiercely.