bestow on any one.  Beyond the gratification of the moment, he is totally indifferent to all the consequences of his powers.  He is not a bad man, he would not do anything that the world—­his world, at least—­would consider dishonourable; but as to reflecting upon the cruelty of inflicting wounds, never to be healed, upon the hearts of young ladies—­why, he would as soon reflect upon the wounds he gave an enemy in the battle-field.  He considers Cupid as fair game as Mars, and thinks that if women will be weak, and if he is irresistible, it is no fault of his, but rather their and his misfortune.

Young ladies! the vulgar saying that a woman should never give her heart to a man until she is asked for it, is, like many vulgar sayings, a good one.  Colonel Vaughan is the type of a class amongst which all are liable to be thrown; and although men of his talent, knowledge of the world, and apparent sincerity are rare, you may each of you meet with one such.  If you do, beware of falling in love with him until he plainly tells you that he is in love with you, and asks if you are willing to marry him.

Colonel Vaughan leaves the drawing-room in search of Mr Gwynne, humming a little Scotch air, the refrain of which is ’and troth I’ll wed ye a,’ a thing he has often wished he could actually do.

He finds Mr Gwynne in his library, and reminds him of the promised ride.  The horses are ordered, and they are soon trotting down the drive.  As if by mutual consent, they take the turn that leads to Pentre, Lady Mary Nugent’s place.  It is about a mile from Glanyravon, and beautifully situated on a hill that commands a fine prospect of dale, wood, and river.

The handsome mother and daughter are at home, and hail the arrivals with great glee.  As Lady Mary is not at all certain that Colonel Vaughan’s attentions are not exclusively meant for her, she divides her civilities with a charming tact between the two gentlemen, and looks so captivating whilst she does so, that the colonel wishes that her statue-like daughter had a little of her animation.

Everything that art and taste can devise is collected to adorn the ladies and their abode, and if nature is lacking within doors, she is profuse in her gifts without.

There is nothing worth recording in the conversation; if Colonel Vaughan had thought it over afterwards, he would probably have laughed at the platitudes he had uttered, and wondered why people paid morning visits.  The coming of age was a grand topic, and the colonel promised to go again the following day, and ‘help in the decorations.’

When the gentlemen took their leave, Mr Gwynne proposed a ride through his plantations, which he was improving and enlarging.  They went accordingly.  On their way they stopped at a small farm to inquire for one of Mr Gwynne’s tenants, who was dangerously ill.  Mr Gwynne dismounted, and as he entered the house, Gladys came out; she curtseyed as she passed Colonel Vaughan, who said,—­