alone his bosom granted a lodging. His account of his recent experiments in business was like sea-air to the sick youth—it put him in spirits, and considering how much he had gone through, and how much he might still have to go through, it did him a world of good. Once fairly within Mylden Place, Mr. Mottram felt at home, more so than his master, settled down as if for life; and, taking advantage of his young master's present penitence and wedded softness, he gave himself to unrestricted dissipation, much to the encouragement of the like mood in the familiar circle of the Hall. But he was, in many respects, a faithful and useful servant, particularly in the shrewdness with which he discovered in other people the very faults which were so actively developed in his own conduct. He was a rogue himself, and his master knew it as well as himself; but then a rogue has his uses, and may be depended on within known limits, while, again, it is generally safe to tolerate one who, from considerations of self, will not tolerate any other rogue in or about a house. Whether it was the result of instinct or culture, he had an excellent method for the detection of knavery, and frequently a very successful method. He took for granted that all persons who were necessarily trusted much were necessarily tempted much, and necessarily fell often. He knew human nature well: he had studied its workings as an art, and although he might occasionally make mistakes, he felt that he was master of the secret of human motive, and that was no small advantage. By indiscriminate suspicion it was surprising what a large number of doubtful actions turned up in their true light, whereby his suspicion grew apace, and his skill and success also grew apace. In addition to these invaluable qualities, he possessed great resources of a philosophic kind, by which he could imperceptibly mould and influence those who came into contact with him, none more so than his young master, for whom he conceived a very guardian-like affection, and for whose relief and pleasure he devised many clever plans. He made himself at home-not rudely, as the phrase implies, but quite naturally; for, as we have said, he felt himself quite at home, and had made up his mind to it. Not a word had Charles said to him by which he might have

concluded that drink had anything to do with his shaken health; and yet, strange to say, he knew it. Was that instinct, or a matter of observation, and plain reasoning thereon? And, stranger still, he deplored it, moralized often at odd times on the misfortune of not beginning young enough, and so getting seasoned. He had a feeling of resentment, too, against low liquors, to which, with genuine sorrow, he had noticed that his master was becoming addicted. The plan which, on this important point, appeared to his judgment the most desirable, was as follows: that Mr. Charles should begin gently, persevere steadily, and get worse as he found he could bear it; that for the better discharge of these first duties he should be encouraged to take much fresh air, and as soon as the season fell in he should keep a stable, and hunt methodically five days out of seven. He was no judge of horseflesh himself, but a man with his brains and opportunities could scarcely have passed the meridian of life, and grown grey in the very best society, without picking up a complete vocabulary of jockey slang, and being able to look and talk wisely on all matters of sport. Sport was not to his taste, though game was hunting was over arduous, but appetite was paradise. Besides, he was born, as one might say, with the idea that such rough exercise was at once a necessity and a glory to a thorough-bred gentleman. His fatherly interest in his young lord won the respect of servants and mistress-indeed, it gave a much-wanted air of antique grandeur to the entire family. Nearly all the really old branches of good families round about had a much older support in the shape of an aged domestic, who would have died, and, by all his own account, did very nearly die, some dozens of time for the safety of the young master and the honour of the house. The Barton establishment accordingly became at once solemnly splendid on the arrival of one so eminently fitted, outside and in, to play the venerable domestic.

Of course, the very idea of putting so much that was venerable into green plush breeches would have been profanity he was dressed like a clergyman, had all the air of the old school, and one or two of their habits; and of the two it would have looked much more proper to invest Mr.

Charles himself in his own livery. The slight prejudice which Sarah had conceived was soon dismissed from her amiable mind, with the mental remark, that she was sure she had no reason in the world for it, except that Mr. Mottram plainly did not approve of her. As that critic was now disposed to accept the settled fact as a settled fact, and behave as though he had done so, the sweet-tempered wife forgave him his prejudice and sank her own.

CHAPTER III.

UNSELFISH HAPPINESS.

ONE morning in the soft autumn time, Sarah was driving her husband a good long round, and their feeling was so intensely a happy one that it begat a desire in both minds to share it with others, and Sarah began to talk about having a little company at the Place-not stately dinner ordeals, nor yet roystering hunting breakfasts, but elegant and cozy parties: "For you know, Charles, I am so unspeakably happy that I think-indeed, I'm sure-I could make ever so many people happy; I'm half ashamed of being so happy, and nobody but mother knowing, though I don't believe what she says, that a little variety will only give a relish to our joyI don't believe a word of it." And she shook the reins friskily, jauntily, and the proud ponies stepped out in vigorous style.

Charles replied, with evident emotion, "I am too happy, love, to think of any change; I dare not propose such a thing, but I will gladly do all, anything you wish; I feel as if it were almost selfish to shut the whole world out from such joy as ours, for, without boasting, I think it is very rare, and I'm sure no change can change it; but I have a feeling as if we ought just now to ask my father and Mr. Drake; I should love, of all things, to see him handling a gun-wouldn't it be fun? Then you know, love, if we don't have them soon we can't do with them by and by."

"Of course we can't: oh, I should be only too glad. I believe I can't bear any more joy. But we will have both

papas, and we'll have them at once: do you think your papa will come? Would it be cruel to ask him? If we quarrelled and all that, I should not care; for he would say to himself, 'Ah! this is never my old home;' but as it is, dearest, don't you think it would make him heavy-hearted? As for dear Drake, I don't think he would come unless you said something about parchments and deeds. Have you any business that would tempt him? I feel sure he would make some dry excuse or other, if you proposed nothing but shooting, and offered him no inducement but his Boothby. Not that

he doesn't love her; but then he's ashamed to show it— afraid she should take advantage of it, eh, Charles? Oh! he's a nonsuch is my dear old papa, second edition, bound in vellum."

"You shall write to Arlton and I to London, and we shall see who can beg most effectually. I've my own misgivings about both; but if they won't come and see our happiness, love, it shall be their own fault.”

"Very well-now for rivalry and home (as she checked her ponies, and prepared to turn); if it comes to letter writing, I'm sure to beat you, Charles."

It was a simple-hearted, natural joke, but inadvertent; and it shot like an arrow into Charles's heart, where it held fast, quivering. Strange that so light a word should awaken suffering that had been hushed to slumber by such sweet lullabies of love. But it was an awakening-that suffering did but slumber; it was not healed, but only soothed and hidden. The old forlorn ambition was aroused, and very speedily there followed in its train the old discontent and restlessness. Charles had almost forgotten that his wife was above him, even in that unremitting diligence of love which for weeks had been his whole business and delight. Did she know it, too? He did not think that; it was pain enough that he knew it. He felt again, as he had so lately ceased to feel, that he was not worthy of her-that he had done nothing, could do nothing, was far from being in a way to do anything which would render her proud and glorious through her union with him. He began once more the dangerous play of fancy, which had already cost him so much.

His brain reeled, as vision after vision of imagined glory sped before him; and he mourned, in the bitterness of a mortified but unhumbled pride, that he had not yet seized the glittering success he prized so highly, that he might make her like himself-proud in her love. There was no immediate and very marked indication of this mental relapse, but the quick eye discovered it, and in part attributed it to its true cause, so that she was all the more eloquent in her appeal to Mr. Barton to come, and see, and share their felicity, and even secretly, under cover of Mr. Drake's letter, added a rider of considerable pathos to Charles's colder invitation to the London father. All in vain Mr. Drake pleaded term time, and gave unsatisfactory hints about Christmas; Mr. Barton took time to consider, and Sarah felt that it was a drawn game-that neither she nor her husband would be declared winner; if anything, that she had lost, for not having played fairly.

CHAPTER IV.

FEELING ONE'S WAY.

WHILE they were yet waiting for a reply from Arlton, Charles began to take rather more active exercise, and one morning he found himself booted and spurred and on horseback, with the design of riding to cover, just to see the hounds throw off. This was a very natural piece of business for a young man in Mr. Charles's position; but, nevertheless, it was the result of a suggestion on the part of Mr. Mottram. That sagacious individual had only just arrived at the conviction that both he and his master might venture "to cover," at any rate. It had occurred to him before, but, apart from the weakness of his master, there were reasons for delay that had a reference to a weakness of his own. He early set himself to the establishment of his influence over the mind of the head groom, but he failed to derive confidence from the frequent assurances of that person to the effect that he was sure if ever there was a knowing one, it was himself (Mottram).