in the same book. "We each of us pawned our
morality very early in life, and never were rich
enough to redeem it. A propos of pledges, is
your wife alive? I lost a bet about it some
time ago, but I forget on which side. I backed
my opinion.

"Now, to sum up. Let me hear from you
about all I have been asking; and, though I
don't opine it lies very much in your way,
send me any tidings you can pick up—to
his disadvantage, of course—of Joseph Loyd,
Middle Temple. You know scores of attorneys
who could trace him. Your hint about letter-
writing for the papers is not a bad one. I
suppose I could learn the trick, and do it at least
as well as some of the fellows whose lucubrations
I read. A political surmise, a spicy bit
of scandal, a sensation trial, wound up with a
few moral reflections upon how much better we
do the same sort of things at home. Isn't that
the bone of it? Send me—don't forget it—
send me some news of Rocksley. I want to hear
how they take all that I have been doing of late
for their happiness. I have half of a letter
written to Soph—a sort of mild condolence,
blended with what the serious people call
profitable reflections and suggestive hints that her
old affection will find its way back to me one
of these days, and that when the event occurs,
her best course will be to declare it. I have
reminded her, too, that I laid up a little love in
her heart when we parted, just as shrewd people
leave a small balance at their bankers' as a title
to re-open their account at a future day.

"Give Guy's people a hint that it's only wasting
postage-stamps to torment me with bills.
I never break the envelope of a dun's letter,
and I know them as instinctively as a detective
does a swell-mobsman. What an imaginative
race these duns must be. I know of no fellow,
for the high flights of fancy, to equal one's
tailor or bootmaker. As to the search for the
elixir vitæ, it's a dull realism after the attempts
I have witnessed for years to get money out of
myself.

"But I must close this; here is Milly,
whose taper fingers have been making cigarettes
for me all the morning, come to propose a sail
on the lake!—fact Algy!—and the wolf is going
out with the lambs, just as prettily and as
decorously as though his mother had been a ewe and
cast 'sheep's eyes' at his father. Address me,
Orta, simply, for I don't wish it to be thought
here that my stay is more than a day by day
matter. I have all my letters directed to the
post-office.

"Yours, very cordially,

"HARRY CALVERT."

The pleasant project thus passingly alluded
to was not destined to fulfilment; for as Calvert
with the two sisters were on their way to the
lake, they were overtaken by Miss Grainger,
who insisted on carrying away Calvert, to give
her his advice upon a letter she had just
received. Obeying with the best grace he
could, and which really did not err on the score
of extravagance, he accompanied the old lady
back to the house, somewhat relieved, indeed, in
mind to learn that the letter she was about to
show him in no way related to him nor his
affairs.

"I have my scruples, Mr. Calvert, about
asking your opinion in a case where I well know
your sympathies are not in unison with our own;
but your wise judgment and great knowledge
of life are advantages I cannot bring myself to
relinquish. I am well aware that whatever your
feelings or your prejudices, they will not interfere
with that good judgment."

"Madam, you do me honour; but, I hope, no
more than justice."

"You know of Florry's engagement to Mr.
Loyd?" she asked, abruptly, as though eager to
begin her recital; and he bowed. "Well, he left
this so hurriedly about his father's affairs, that
he had no time to settle anything, or, indeed,
explain anything. We knew nothing of his
prospects or his means, and he just as little
about my niece's fortune. He had written, it is
true, to his father, and got a most kind and
affectionate answer, sanctioning the match, and
expressing fervent wishes for his happiness—
Why do you smile, Mr. Calvert?"

"I was only thinking of the beauty of that
benevolence that costs nothing; few things are
more graceful than a benediction—nothing so
cheap."

"That may be so. I have nothing to say to
it," she rejoined, in some irritation. "But old
Mr. Loyd's letter was very beautiful, and very
touching. He reminded Joseph that he himself
had married on the very scantiest of means, and
that though his life had never been above the
condition of a very poor vicar, the narrowness
of his fortune had not barred his happiness.
I'd like to read you a passage—"

"Pray do not. You have given me the key-
note, and I feel as if I could score down the
whole symphony."

"You don't believe him, then?"

"Heaven forfend! All I would say is, that
between a man of his temperament and one of
mine discussion is impossible; and if this be
the letter on which you want my opinion, I
frankly tell you I have none to give."

"No, no! this is not the letter; here is the
letter I wish you to read. It has only come by
this morning's post, and I want to have your
judgment on it before I speak of it to the girls."

Calvert drew the letter slowly from its
envelope, and, with a sort of languid resignation,
proceeded to read it. As he reached the end
of the first page, he said, "Why, it would
need a lawyer of the Ecclesiastical Court to
understand this. What's all this entangled
story about irregular induction, and the last
incumbent, and the lay impropriator?"

"Oh, you needn't have read that! It's the
poor old gentleman's account of his calamity;
now he has lost his vicarage, and is going
down to a curacy in Cornwall. Here," said she,
pointing to another page, "here is where you
are to begin; ' I might have borne—'"