“Well, I don’t care. Perhaps dad’s a highwayman.” 

 I kicked at the grass impatiently. 

 “It must end some day, you know.” 

 Jason tilted his cap from his eyes and blinked at me. 

 “What d’ye mean, piggy?” 

 “Suppose dad died or went mad?” 

 “We’d sell the mill and have a rare time of it.” 

 “Oh, you great clown! Sell it for what? Driftwood? And how long would the rare time last?” 

 “You’re mighty particular to-day. I hate answering questions. Let me alone.” 

 “I won’t,” I said, viciously. “I want your opinion.” 

 “Well, it’s that you’re a precious fool!” 

 “What for?” 

 “To bother your head with what you can’t answer, when the sun’s shining.” 

 “I can’t help bothering my head,” I said. “I’ve been bothering it, I think, ever since dad gave old Crackenthorpe that medal last year.” 

 Jason sat up. 

 “So you noticed it, too,” he said. “Renny, there’s depths in the old man that we sha’n’t plumb.” 

 “Well, I’ve taken to thinking of things a bit,” said I. 

 Jason—so named, at any period (I never saw a register of the christening of any one of us) because of his golden fleece, shook it and set to whistling softly. 

 His name—Modred’s, too—mine was Renalt, and more local—were evidence of my father’s superior culture as compared with most of his class. They were odd, if you like, but having a little knowledge and fancifulness to back them, gave proof 

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