His duty was no longer to be found at Moorlands; his Uncle George claimed him.

All his hours would now be devoted to showing him how grateful he was for his protection and guidance.

Time enough for his father, and time enough for Kate, for that matter, should the clouds ever lift--as lift they would--but his Uncle George first, last, and all the time.
And St.George appreciated it to the full.

Never had he been so happy.
Even the men at the club saw the change, and declared he looked ten years younger--fifteen really, when Harry was with him, which was almost always the case--for out of consideration for St.George and the peculiar circumstances surrounding the boy's condition, his birth and station, and the pride they took in his pluck, the committee had at last stretched the rule and had sent Mr.Henry Gilmor Rutter of Moorlands--with special reference to "Moorlands," a perennial invitation entitling him to the club's privileges--a card which never expired because it was systematically renewed.
And it was not only at the club that the two men were inseparable.

In their morning walks, the four dogs in full cry; at the races; in the hunts, when some one loaned both Harry and his uncle a mount--at night, when Todd passed silently out, leaving all the bottled comforts behind him--followed by--"Ah, Harry!--and you won't join me?
That's right, my son--and I won't ask you," the two passed almost every hour of the day and night together.