"Ah, yes!" said he, reading aloud; "'I might
have borne up better under this misfortune if it
had not occurred at such a critical moment of
my poor boy's fate, for I am still uncertain what
effect these tidings will have produced on you.
I shall no longer have a home to offer the young
people, when from reasons of health or economy,
or relaxation, they would like to have left the
town and come down to rusticate with us.
Neither will it be in my power to contribute—
even in the humble shape I had once hoped—to
their means of living. I am, in short, reduced
to the very narrowest fortune, nor have I the
most distant prospect of any better: so much
for myself. As for Joseph, he has been offered,
through the friendly intervention of an old
college companion, an appointment at the
Calcutta Bar. It is not a lucrative nor an important
post, but one which they say will certainly lead
to advancement and future fortune. Had it not
been for his hopes, hopes—which have latterly
constituted the very spring of his existence—
such an opening as this would have been
welcomed with all his heart; but now the offer
comes clouded with all the doubts as to how
you may be disposed to regard it. Will you
consent to separate from the dear girl you have
watched over with such loving solicitude for
years? Will she herself consent to expatriation
and the parting from her sister and yourself?
These are the questions which torture his mind,
and leave him no rest day or night! The poor
fellow has tried to plead his cause in a letter—he
has essayed a dozen times but all in vain. "My
own selfishness shocks me," he says, "when I
read over what I have written, and see how
completely I have forgotten everything but my
own interests." If he remain at home, by
industry and attention he may hope, in some six or
seven years, to be in a position to marry; but
six or seven years are a long period of life, and
sure to have their share of vicissitudes and
casualties. Whereas, by accepting this appointment,
which will be nearly seven hundred a
year, he could afford at once to support a wife,
of course supposing her to submit willingly to
the privations and wants of such straitened
fortunes. I have offered to tell his story for him—
that story he has no strength to tell himself—
but I have not pledged to be his advocate; for,
while I would lay down my life to secure his
happiness, I cannot bring myself to urge for his
sake, what might be unfair or ungenerous to
exact from another.

"' Though my son's account of your niece
leaves us nothing more to ask or wish for in a
daughter, I am writing in ignorance of many
things I would like to know. Has she, for
instance, the energy of character that would face
a new life in a new and far away land? Has she
courage—has she health for it? My wife is not
pleased at my stating all these reasons for doubt;
but I am determined you shall know the worst of
our case from ourselves, and discover no blot we
have not prepared you for.'" Calvert muttered
something here, but too inaudibly to be heard,
and went on reading: "' When I think that
poor Joe's whole happiness will depend on what
decision your next letter will bring, I have only
to pray that it may be such as will conduce to the
welfare of those we both love so dearly. I cannot
ask you to make what are called "sacrifices" for
us; but I entreat you let the consideration of
affection weigh with you, not less than that of
worldly interests, and also to believe that when
one has to take a decision which is to influence
a lifetime, it is as safe to take counsel from the
heart as from the head—from the nature that is
to feel, as from the intellect that is to plan.'

"I think I have read enough of this," said
Calvert, impatiently. "I know the old gent's
brief perfectly. It's the old story: first gain a
girl's affections, and let her friends squabble, if
they dare, about the settlements. He's an artful
old boy, that vicar! but I like him, on the
whole, better than his son, for though he does
plead in formâ pauperis, he has the fairness to
say so."

"You are very severe, Mr. Calvert. I hope
you are too severe," said the old lady, in some
agitation.

"And what answer are you going to give him?"
asked he, curtly.

"That is exactly the point on which I want
your advice; for though I know well you are
no friend to young Loyd, I believe you to be
our sincere well-wisher, and that your judgment
will be guided by the honest feelings of regard
for us."

Without deigning to notice this speech, he
arose, and walked up and down the room,
apparently deep in thought. He stopped at last, and
said, abruptly, "I don't presume to dictate to
you in this business; but if I were the young
lady's guardian, and got such a letter as this,
my reply would be a very brief one."

"You'd refuse your consent?"

"Of course I would! Must your niece
turn adventuress, and go off to Heaven knows
where, with God knows whom? Must she link
her fortunes to a man who confessedly cannot
face the world at home, but must go to the end
of the earth for a bare subsistence? What is
there in this man himself, in his character,
station, abilities, and promise, that are to
recompense such devotion as this? And what will
your own conscience say to the first letter from
India, full of depression and sorrow, regrets
shadowed forth, if not avowed openly, for the
happy days when you were all together, and
contrasts of that time, with the dreary dulness
of an uncheered existence? I know something
of India, and I can tell you it is a country where
life is only endurable by splendour. Poverty in
such a land is not merely privation, it is to live
in derision and contempt. Every one knows
how many rupees you have per month, and you
are measured by your means in everything.
That seven hundred a year, which sounds
plausibly enough, is something like two hundred at
home, if so much. Of course you can override
all these considerations, and, as the vicar says,
'Let the heart take precedence of the head.'
My cold and worldly counsels will not stand