But turning from these scenes of beauty rare
The family circle next demands our care,
That fireside kingdom where the father bland
His sceptre sways with firm and gentle hand.
Obedient children clust'ring round his knees
Perform with pleasure all his mild decrees,
With willing hearts upon his orders wait
Thus show example to the parent state.

Dr. Larcher, the vicar of Garsworth, was a fine type of what is called muscular Christianity. Tall, broad-shouldered and burly, he looked more like a cavalry officer than a parson, and he preached his sermons, which were generally plain and outspoken, in a loud assertive tone of voice. Being fond of archaeology and long walks he knew every inch of the country for miles round, and was as well acquainted with the poorest cottagers as with the lords of the soil. Simple, large-minded gentleman that he was, he admirably suited his position in life, and if the rustics of Garsworth had not a sound belief in the tenets of the Church of England, it was by no means the fault of the worthy vicar, who thundered out practical Christianity in ponderous Johnsonian sentences, with the zeal of a Savonarola and the eloquence of a Bossuet. He was also a great Latinist and plentifully seasoned his discourse with quotations from Horace, for which bard he professed great admiration.

On the morning after the visit of Nestley to the Grange, Dr. Larcher was seated at the breakfast-table talking eagerly about a bronze sword which had just been brought to him, having been disinterred from some ancient British tumulus. His present congregation consisted of Dick Pemberton, who was rather disposed to laugh at the important discovery, Reginald Blake, looking somewhat preoccupied, Ferdinand Priggs, the poet, a sallow youth with dreamy eyes and a deep voice, and Miss Eleonora Gwendoline Vera Bianca Larcher, the sole child of the vicar and his wife.

These names, decidedly alarming ones, had been given to her by Mrs. Larcher, who had selected them from the "Family Herald," her favourite journal, but Dr. Larcher, who had no fancy for high-sounding titles, called his daughter Pumpkin. This unhappy cognomen had been bestowed on the child by the nurse, in despair at being unable to master the legitimate names, and the vicar was so pleased with the oddity of the title that he there and then adopted it. Mrs. Larcher, however, obstinately refused to accept this innovation, and called her daughter Eleonora Gwendoline, but generally Miss Larcher answered to the name of Pumpkin, her aristocratic names being only brought out on company occasions.

She was a pretty, plump girl, with dark eyes and a rosy face. Endowed with a large amount of common sense, her tastes lay in the direction of making puddings and mending clothes, whilst she evinced a great contempt for poetry and such-like things. Mrs. Larcher, being an invalid, left the management of the house entirely to Pumpkin, who ruled the servants with a rod of iron, looked after the creature comforts of her father and his pupils, and was besides a bright, lively girl whom everyone adored.

As to Mrs. Larcher, she was always ill, but why she should be so was a mystery to everyone save herself. It was either her nerves or her liver or her spine or her laziness, most probably the latter, as she mostly passed her life alternating between the sofa and her bed. Occasionally she strolled out, but always came back feeling weak and bad, to be strengthened with strong tea and hot muffins, after which she would bewail her delicate constitution in a subdued whimper. Her unknown malady was known to all as "The Affliction," that being a generic name for all kinds of diseases, and Mrs. Larcher herself alluded to her ill health by this title as being a happy one and necessitating no special mention of any one infirmity. Pumpkin looked after everything and was the good fairy of the vicarage, while Mrs. Larcher lay all day on her sofa reading novels and drinking tea, or gossiping with any visitors who might drop in.

At present Mrs. Larcher was safe in bed upstairs and Pumpkin presided at the breakfast-table, which was now covered with an array of empty dishes, as the male portion of the vicarage inmates, with the exception of the poet, had large appetites. Dr. Larcher, however, had been too excited to eat much, and had his eyes intently fixed upon his newly-discovered bronze implement.

"It's a wonderful example of what the ancient Britons could do," he said grandiloquently, "and to my mind, I proves no mean standard of civilisation."

"Even in that age of barbarism," observed the poet enthusiastically, "they cultivated a love for the beautiful."

"Oh, bosh," said Dick irreverently, "they wanted something to knock the stuffing out of an enemy."

"Well, I think that sword could do it," remarked Pumpkin with a smile. "Suppose we try it on you, Dick."

"No, thanks," retorted that young gentleman, grimacing, "I'll agree without practical proof."

"I shall write an article on this," said Dr. Larcher, delicately balancing the sword in his hand. "Such a discovery will be a distinct gain to our knowledge of the aborigines of that dead and buried time of so long ago--Eheu fugaces Postume labuntur anni."

"It breathes the very spirit of the age," cried Ferdinand with an inspired air:

The age of Bronze, the age of Bronze
Where Boadicea----

"Loved and sung," finished Dick. "I say old chap, you're cribbing from the Isles of Greece."

Whereupon Ferdinand entered into a lively discussion with Dick to prove that he had not plagiarised from Byron while Dick in reply mercilessly chaffed the unhappy poet with such success that he fled from the room, pursued by his laughing antagonist.

"What is the matter, Reggy?" asked Pumpkin, seeing how quiet Blake had remained, "anything wrong?"

"Oh no," he replied hastily, "but I was wondering how the Squire is this morning."

"You'd better go over and see, Blake," said the vicar, looking up. "I hope that strange doctor did him some good. By the way who is this doctor?"

"I don't know, sir," answered Blake, turning towards Dr. Larcher, "he said he was on a walking tour, and I fancy is a friend of Beaumont's."

The vicar frowned.

"Birds of a feather," he said decisively. "I don't think much of Beaumont, Blake, and if this Dr. Nestley is his friend, I'm afraid he's not much good."

"That is severe, papa," said Pumpkin.

"My dear," replied her father emphatically. "I hope I am the last man in the world to speak ill of my fellow creatures, but I am afraid that Basil Beaumont is not a good man--you can hardly call him 'integer vit?,'--I knew him before he left the parish, and even then his nature was not all that could be desired, but now his worst traits of character have become developed in the pernicious atmosphere of London life, and as I am the guardian of three youths whose minds are naturally open to seductive influences it is but right that I should take a severe view of the matter; if Basil Beaumont became the companion of my pupils I should tremble for the result--ille dies utramque ducet ruinam."

"But Dr. Nestley, papa?"

"As to Doctor Nestley," said the vicar majestically, "I do not yet know him--when I do, I will be in a position to judge of his character--but like draws to like and I fear--I fear sadly," finished Dr. Larcher shaking his head sagaciously, "that no one of strictly upright principles can be an intimate friend of Basil Beaumont's."

"I don't think they are very intimate friends," said Reggy thoughtfully, "rather the opposite."

"Ah, indeed," replied Dr. Larcher, "well, well, we shall see; however--non h?c jocos? conveniunt lyr?--you can go over to the Grange, Blake, and inquire after the Squire's health."

At this moment a tapping was heard on the floor above which signified that Mrs. Larcher required some little attention, whereupon Pumpkin left the room with alacrity in order to see what "The Affliction" wanted. Left alone with the vicar Reggy was about to retire, when Dr. Larcher stopped him.

"By the way, Blake," he said gravely, "I wish to speak to you on a serious subject."

Reggy flushed red and bowed without saying a word, as he intuitively guessed what was coming.

"I am aware," observed the vicar in his ponderous manner, "that I may be about to interfere in your affairs in what you may consider a most unjustifiable manner."

"Not at all, sir," answered Reginald warmly, "no one has such a right to speak to me as you have--my second father--I may say my only father."

Dr. Larcher smiled in a gratified manner and looked at the tall young man standing near him with approval.

"I am glad to have your good opinion," he said, politely bending his head, "but in order that you may understand me clearly you must permit me to recapitulate as shortly as possible the story of your life--this is a very critical period of your career--remember Horace, Tu nisi ventis debis ludibrium cave."

Blake turned pale, then, with a forced smile resumed his seat and waited for the vicar to proceed, which that worthy gentleman did, not without some embarrassment.

"Of course you understand," he said clearing his throat, "that I am quite unaware of your parentage--whether your father and mother are alive I do not know--about two-and-twenty years ago you were brought to me by Patience Allerby, your nurse, who had just then returned from London, where she had been in service. She told me that you were the son of a poor literary man and his wife, whose servant she had been, they went away to France and--I understand--died there. She was left with you on her hands so brought you down here and delivered you to my charge; since then you have been an inmate of my house."

"The only home I ever knew," interposed Blake with emotion.

"I will not deny," said Dr. Larcher, "that I have received through your nurse certain sums of money for your education which leads me to believe--in spite of her denial--that your parents may be still alive. This is well enough in the past, but now you are twenty-two years of age and I wish to make some arrangements about your future career--you will of course choose your own vocation in life--but meantime I wish you to ask Patience Allerby about your birth and obtain from her all information regarding your parents which may be of use to me--you can do so when you go over to the Grange to-day--and then let me know the result; afterwards we can discuss ways and means regarding your future."

"It's very kind of you, sir to talk like this," said Blake in a low voice, "and I feel deeply grateful to you. I will see Patience and get her to tell me all she knows, but I'm afraid I can expect nothing from my parents, even though they are alive--a father and mother who could leave their child to the mercy of strangers all these years cannot have much humanity."

"Do not judge them too harshly," said the vicar hastily, "there may be reasons."

"I've no doubt of that," replied Blake bitterly, "reasons which mean shame."

"Not necessarily--a secret marriage----"

"Would have been declared long before the lapse of twenty years," said Reggy quickly. "I'm afraid there is worse than that and my birth was my mother's shame."

There was a cloud on the good vicar's brow as the young man spoke, but he delicately refrained from saying anything. Going over to Blake he patted him gently on the shoulder, a mark of kindliness which touched the young man deeply.

"Come! come, Blake," he said cheerfully, "you must not cherish these morbid fancies. You are young and clever, with the world before you, who knows but what you may achieve success, and then your unknown parents, if they live, will acknowledge you only too gladly. Do not be so easily cast down. What is the manly advice of the Venusinian?

'Rebus angustis animosus atque
Fortis appare.'"

"I don't think Horace was ever called upon to bear trouble undaunted," said Blake rather sadly, "but if my belief is true it will cast a shadow on my life."

"Morbid! morbid!" replied the vicar gaily, "do not go out in a coach and four to meet your troubles, my lad--see Patience first--if your thoughts prove true there will be time enough to lament them, but with youth and brains on your side you should not turn recreant in the battle of life."

"Nor will I," said Reggy, grasping the kind hand held out towards him. "Whatever comes or goes I have at least one man who has been to me father and mother both."

Then, overcome by his emotion, he hastily left the room, while the vicar, taking up the bronze sword, prepared to follow.

"Ah!" said the worthy gentleman with a sigh. "I trust his forebodings may not prove true, but Patience Allerby knows more than she tells, and I fear for the worst; however, Non si male nunc et olim sic erit, and the boy has at least had a few happy years--what says glorious John?

'Not heaven itself over the past hath power
For what hath been hath been,
And I have had my hour.'"

And with this somewhat pagan sentiment Dr. Larcher went away to discuss the Bronze period, illustrated by the newly-found sword, with a certain old crony who always differed from him and constantly said "No," to the vicar's "Yes."