CHAPTER XII.
The colonel's treatment of Harry at the club had cleared the air of any doubt that either the boy or St.George might have had concerning Rutter's frame of mind.

Henceforth the boy and the man would conduct their lives as if the Lord of Moorlands did not exist.
So the boy unpacked the things which Alec had brought in, and with his mother's assistance--who came in once a week--hung up his hunting-clothes in the closet, racked up his guns and fishing-rods over the mantel, and suspended his favorite saddle by a stirrup on a hook in the hall.

Then the two had set out his books and miniatures; one of his mother, which he kissed tenderly, with the remark that it wasn't half as pretty as the original, and then propped up in the place of honor in the middle of his desk, and another of his father, which he placed on an adjoining table--as well as his few belongings and knickknacks.

And so the outcast settled down determined not only to adapt himself to the comforts--or want of them--to be found under St.George's roof, but to do it cheerfully, gratefully, and like a man and a gentleman.
To none of all this did his father offer a single objection.

"Make a clean sweep of Mr.Harry Rutter's things," he had said to Alec, "so that I may be relieved from the annoyance of a second delivery." Alec had repeated the order to Harry word for word, adding: "Don't you sass back, Marse Harry--let him blow hisse'f out--he don't mean nothin'.
He's dat mad he's crazy--gits dat way sometimes--den purty soon he's fit to bust hisse'f wide open a-cryin'! I see him do dat once when you warn't mo'n so high, and de doctor said you was daid fo' sho'." Harry made no reply, but it did not ruffle his temper.