"I think I can guess," he said warmly, "and I wish you every
happiness, Tom."

My lips were trembling so I could not thank him, but I think he knew what
was in my heart.




CHAPTER III

IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF


I doubt not that by this time the reader is beginning to wonder who this
fellow is that has claimed his attention, and so, since there is no one
else to introduce me, I must needs present myself.

It so happened that when that stern old lion, Oliver Cromwell, crushed
the butterfly named Charles Stuart at Worcester in the dim dawn of the
third day of September, 1651, and utterly routed the army of that unhappy
prince, one Thomas Stewart fell into the hands of the Roundheads, as,
indeed, did near seven thousand others of the Royalist army. Now this
Thomas Stewart had very foolishly left a pretty estate in Kincardine,
together with a wife and two sturdy boys, to march under the banner of
the Princeling, as he conceived to be his duty, and after giving and
taking many hard knocks, here he was in the enemy's hands, and Charles
Stuart a fugitive. They had one and all been declared by Parliament
rebels and traitors to the Commonwealth, so the most distinguished of the