"Then, sir," said the youth gravely, "you much belie your reputation. And
now I must leave you for another part of the preserves, where I think it
likely that last night's poachers may now be, and where I shall pass the
night in watching for them. You may want your permit for a few miles
further, so I will not take it. Neither need you give it up at
Sunch'ston. It is dated, and will be useless after this evening."

With this he strode off into the forest, bowing politely but somewhat
coldly, and without encouraging my father's half proffered hand.

My father turned sad and unsatisfied away.

"It serves me right," he said to himself; "he ought never to have been my
son; and yet, if such men can be brought by hook or by crook into the
world, surely the world should not ask questions about the bringing. How
cheerless everything looks now that he has left me."

* * * * *

By this time it was three o'clock, and in another few minutes my father
came upon the ashes of the fire beside which he and the Professors had
supped on the preceding evening. It was only some eighteen hours since
they had come upon him, and yet what an age it seemed! It was well the
Ranger had left him, for though my father, of course, would have known
nothing about either fire or poachers, it might have led to further
falsehood, and by this time he had become exhausted--not to say, for the
time being, sick of lies altogether.

He trudged slowly on, without meeting a soul, until he came upon some
stones that evidently marked the limits of the preserves. When he had