of such as these afterward recalled hours or half hours spent in the cozy study in Charlotte Square, beside the little figure in its chair—­outwardly capable of so little, yet endowed with both the power and will to do so much.  Doing it so generously, too, and withal so delicately, that the most sensitive went away with their pride unwounded, and the most hardened and irreligious were softened by it into thankfulness to One higher than their earthly benefactor, who was only the medium through whom the blessings came.

These were accidental offices, intermingled with the principal duty which the earl had undertaken, and which he carried out with unremitting diligence—­the care of his old friend’s children.  He placed some at school, and others at college; those who were already afloat in the world he aided with money and influence—­an earl’s name was so very influential, as, with an amused smile, he occasionally discovered.

But, busy as his new life was, he never forgot his old life and his old friends.  He turned a deaf ear to all persuasions to take up his permanent abode, according as his rank and fortune warranted, in Edinburg.  He was not unhappy there—­he had plenty to do and to enjoy; but his heart was in quiet Cairnforth.  Several times, troublesome, and even painful as the act of penmanship was to him, he sent a few lines to the Manse.  But it happened to be a very severe winter, which made postal communication difficult.  Besides, in those days people neither wrote nor expected letters very often.  During the three months that Lord Cairnforth remained in Edinburg he only received two epistles from Mr. Cardross, and those were in prolix and Johnsonian style, on literary topics, and concerning the great and learned, with whom the poor learned country minister had all his life longed to mix, and had never been able.

Helen, who had scarcely penned a dozen letters in her life, wrote to him once only, in reply to one of his, telling him she was doing every thing as she thought he would best like; that Captain Bruce had assisted her and her father in many ways, so far as his health allowed, but he was very delicate still, and talked of going abroad, to the south of France probably, as soon as possible.  The captain himself never wrote one single line.

At first the earl was a little surprised at this:  however, it was not his habit easily to take offense at his friends.  He was quite without that morbid self-esteem which is always imagining affronts or injuries.  If people liked him, he was glad; if they showed it, he believed them, and rested in their affection with the simple faith of a child.  But if they seemed to neglect him, he still was ready to conclude the slight was accidental, and he rarely grieved over it.  Mere acquaintances had not the power to touch his heart.  And this gentle heart which, liking many, loved but few, none whom he loved ever could really offend.  He