He recalled how strangely and unaccountably he had been drawn to the boy when first he beheld him in the castle yard, and how, owing to a feeling for which he could not account, since the lad's character had little that might commend him to such a man as Crispin, he had contrived that Kenneth should serve in his company.
He recalled how at first--aye, and often afterwards even--he had sought to win the boy's affection, despite the fact that there was naught in the boy that he truly admired, and much that he despised.

Was it possible that these his feelings were dictated by Nature to his unconscious mind?
It must indeed be so, and the written words of Joseph Ashburn to Colonel Pride were true.

Kenneth was indeed his son; the conviction was upon him.

He conjured up the lad's face, and a cry of discovery escaped him.

How blind he had been not to have seen before the likeness of Alice--his poor, butchered girl-wife of eighteen years ago.
How dull never before to have realized that that likeness it was had drawn him to the boy.
He was calm by now, and in his calm he sought to analyse his thoughts, and he was shocked to find that they were not joyous.