But deep in his heart--ay, deeper than any of these his friends and acquaintance ever dreamed-- steadying and strengthening it, keeping it warm for all human uses, yet calm with the quiet sadness of an eternal want, lay all those emotions which are not likings, but loves; not sympathies, but passions; but which with him were to be, in this world, forever dormant and unfulfilled.
Never, let the Castle be ever so full of visitors, or let his daily cares, his outward interest, and his innumerable private charities be ever so great, did he omit driving over twice or thrice a week to spend an hour or two at the Manse--in winter, by the study fire; in summer, under the shade of the green elm-trees--the same trees where he had passed that first sunny Sunday when he came a poor, lonely, crippled orphan child into the midst of the large, merry family--all scattered now.
The minister, Helen, and Boy were the sole inmates left at the Manse, and of these three the latter certainly was the most important.

Hide it as she would, the principal object of the mother's life was her only child.

Many a time, as Lord Cairnforth sat talking with her, after his old fashion, of all his interests, schemes, labors, and hopes--hopes solely for others, and labors, the end of which he knew he would never see--he would smile to himself, noticing how Helen's eye wandered all the while--wandered to where that rosy young scapegrace rode his tiny pony--the earl's gift--up and down the gravel walks, or played at romps with Malcolm, or dug holes in the flower-beds, or got into all and sundry of the countless disgraces which were forever befalling Boy; yet which, so lovable was the little fellow, were as continually forgiven, and, behind his back, even exalted into something very like merits.
But once--and it was an incident which, whether or not Mrs.Bruce forgot it herself, her friend never did, since it furnished a key to much of the past, and a serious outlook for the future--Boy committed an error which threw his mother into an agony of agitation such as she had not betrayed since she came back, a widow, to Cairnforth.
Her little son told a lie! It was a very small lie, such as dozens of children tell--are punished and pardoned--but a lie it was.

It happened on August morning, when the raspberries for which the Manse was famous.

He was desired not to touch them--"not to lay a finger on them," insisted the mother.