knew to be young Scarborough’s most intimate friend.  “There will be a little shooting,” he said, “and I have bought two or three horses, which you and Jones can ride.  Cannock Chase is one of the prettiest parts of England, and as you care for scenery you can get some amusement out of that.  You’ll see my father, and hear, no doubt, what he has got to say for himself.  He is not in the least reticent in speaking of my brother’s affairs.”  There was a good deal in this which was not agreeable.  Miss Scarborough was sister to Mrs. Mountjoy as well as to the squire, and had been one of the family party most anxious to assure the marriage of Florence and the captain.  The late General Mountjoy had been supposed to be a great man in his way, but had died before Tretton had become as valuable as it was now.  Hence the eldest son had been christened with his name, and much of the Mountjoy prestige still clung to the family.  But Harry did not care much about the family except so far as Florence was concerned.  And then he had not been on peculiarly friendly terms with Septimus Jones, who had always been submissive to Augustus; and, now that Augustus was a rich man and could afford to buy horses, was likely to be more submissive than ever.

He went down to Tretton alone early in September, and when he reached the house he found that the two young men were out shooting.  He asked for his own room, but was instead immediately taken to the old squire, whom he found lying on a couch in a small dressing-room, while his sister, who had been reading to him, was by his side.  After the usual greetings Harry made some awkward apology as to his intrusion at the sick man’s bedside.  “Why, I ordered them to bring you in here,” said the squire; “you can’t very well call that intrusion.  I have no idea of being shut up from the world before they nail me down in my coffin.”

“That will be a long time first, we all hope,” said his sister.

“Bother! you hope it, but I don’t know that any one else does;—­I don’t for one.  And if I did, what’s the good of hoping?  I have a couple of diseases, either of which is enough to kill a horse.”  Then he mentioned his special maladies in a manner which made Harry shrink.  “What are they talking about in London just at present?” he asked.

“Just the old set of subjects,” said Harry.

“I suppose they have got tired of me and my iniquities?” Harry could only smile and shake his head.  “There has been such a complication of romances that one expects the story to run a little more than the ordinary nine days.”

“Men still do talk about Mountjoy.”

“And what are they saying?  Augustus declares that you are especially interested on the subject.”

“I don’t know why I should be,” said Harry.

“Nor I either.  When a fellow becomes no longer of any service to either man, woman, or beast, I do not know why any should take an interest in him.  I suppose you didn’t lend him money?”