“Right or wrong, uncle,” cried John, who loved a little mischief in his heart.

“No, sir—­right, but never wrong.  Lord Gosford always voted against him too; and do you think, jackanapes, that my friend the Earl of Gosford and—­and—­myself were ever wrong?  No, sir, men in my day were different creatures from what they are now:  we were never wrong, sir; we loved our country, and had no motive for being in the wrong.”

“How was it with Lord Bute, uncle?”

“Lord Bute, sir,” cried the old man with great warmth, “was the minister, sir—­he was the minister; aye, he was the minister, sir, and was paid for what he did.”

“But Lord Chatham, was he not the minister too?”

Now, nothing vexed the old gentleman more than to hear William Pitt called by his tardy honors; and yet, unwilling to give up what he thought his political opinions, he exclaimed, with an unanswerable positiveness of argument,

“Billy Pitt, sir, was the minister, sir; but—­but—­but—­he was our minister, sir.”

Emily, unable to see her uncle agitated by such useless disputes, threw a reproachful glance on her brother, as she observed timidly,

“That was a glorious administration, sir, I believe.”

“Glorious indeed!  Emmy dear,” said the bachelor, softening with the sound of her voice, and the recollections of his younger days, “we beat the French everywhere—­in America—­in Germany;—­we took—­(counting on his fingers)—­we took Quebec—­yes, Lord Gosford lost a cousin there; and we took all the Canadas; and we took their fleets:  there was a young man killed in the battle between Hawke and Conflans, who was much attached to Lady Juliana—­poor soul! how much she regretted him when dead, though she never could abide him when living—­ah! she was a tender-hearted creature!”

Mr. Benfield, like many others, continued to love imaginary qualities in his mistress, long after her heartless coquetry had disgusted him with her person:  a kind of feeling which springs from self-love, which finds it necessary to seek consolation in creating beauties, that may justify our follies to ourselves; and which often keeps alive the semblance of the passion, when even hope, or real admiration, is extinct.

On reaching the Hall, every one was rejoiced to see their really affectionate and worthy relative, and the evening passed in the tranquil enjoyment of the blessings which Providence had profusely scattered around the family of the baronet, but which are too often hazarded by a neglect of duty that springs from too great security, or an indolence which renders us averse to the precaution necessary to insure their continuance.

Chapter IV.

“You are welcome, Sir Edward,” said the venerable rector, as he took the baronet by the hand; “I was fearful a return of your rheumatism would deprive us of this pleasure, and prevent my making you acquainted with the new occupants of the deanery, who have consented to dine with us to-day, and to whom I have promised, in particular, an introduction to Sir Edward Moseley.”