“Down, Dash!” said Lord Ashden, advancing into the room and holding out his hand.
“As I live, my old friend Philip and his dog Dash! How stupid I was not to know that those eyes could belong only to Philip Norton’s boy!” And Philip remembered in a flash the happy day, now more than a year since, which he and Dash had spent on the lake with the tall stranger whose name was “Frederick.” He quite forgot his awe of Lord Ashden in explaining why he had not returned for the promised row on the lake, and he found himself talking easily, and with no sense of reserve, to this tall stranger whom he already looked up to with boyish love and almost reverence.
“So your mother is dead,” said Lord Ashden kindly. “Poor little chap, I think I know somewhat how it feels to always carry an aching heart. You must tell me all about her some day. I have always wanted to know more about Philip Norton’s wife; but let me tell you, my boy, that you have reason to be proud of your father.”
“Did you know my father so very well?” asked Philip timidly, hoping to hear something about him.
“Yes, indeed,” said Lord Ashden. “Has no one told you that we were chums at college?--and afterward we travelled together for over a year. Your father was an artist, you know, and I had a painting fever myself in those days, and used to perch by poor Philip’s side day after day, copying the same picture.”
“And are you an artist, too?” said Philip, with a kind of reverent surprise.
“No, Phil,” said his lordship, with a little laugh which turned into a sigh, “neither that nor anything else that I hoped to be.”
“I am sure,” whispered Philip, “that you are everything that is good, and I am so glad you were fond of my father.”
“No one could resist him,” said Lord Ashden, looking kindly at the boy. “I never saw any one make friends as he did. Poor fellow! What a bright future every one prophesied for him, and how dreadful the tragic ending of such a life of promise!”
Lord Ashden forgot, in his memories of a past time, that he was speaking to the son of the man whose fate he was mourning, and for a little while he seemed lost in reverie. Philip felt flushed and uncomfortable, and had a miserable feeling that he was in some way to blame for his father’s fate. But no such thought was in Lord Ashden’s mind. After a few moments of silence he seemed to wake to the fear that he had been neglecting his young companion.