There seemed a sense of servitude in accepting this luxury which was not his.

This set him endeavoring to remember something of his father's house, of the large rooms, drafty staircases, and far-off ceilings, and the cold formality of a life that seemed made up of strange faces; some stranger--his parents; some kinder--the servants; particularly the black nurse who had him in charge.

Why did Mr.Peyton ask him about it?
Why, if it were so important to strangers, had not his mother told him more of it?
And why was she not like this good woman with the gentle voice who was so kind to--to Susy?
And what did they mean by making HIM so miserable?
Something rose in his throat, but with an effort he choked it back, and, creeping from the lounge, went softly to the window, opened it to see if it "would work," and looked out.

The shrouded camp fires, the stars that glittered but gave no light, the dim moving bulk of a patrol beyond the circle, all seemed to intensify the darkness, and changed the current of his thoughts.

He remembered what Mr.Peyton had said of him when they first met.