“But you,” said Arthur, half inquiringly, “are, I trust, a stranger to those afflictions.

    ’Rose-leaved from the cold,
    And meant, verily, to hold
    Life’s pure pleasures manifold.’”

“My childhood and youth has, indeed, passed amid flowers and sunshine,” was the reply; “and if the future appears now to point to a more gloomy and thornier path, I will not repine to tread it, for

    ’Here little, and hereafter much,
    Is true from age to age.’”

Arthur, as he was about making a reply, was interrupted by his sister, who came to request Agnes to play for her a favorite tune, and their conversation, with the exception of an occasional word now and then, was ended for that evening.

CHAPTER V.

“The only son of his mother, and she was a widow,—­” Arthur Bernard, as he attained to manhood, seemed to realize, in person and character, all a fond mother’s fondest anticipations.  His stately form, as he mingled among his compeers, did not tower more above them, than did his lofty mind, stored with sound principles, and embellished with varied learning, seem to soar above their grovelling ideas, and to breathe a higher and purer atmosphere.  A glance at his countenance would have sufficed for the most casual observer to have read, in every lineament, the impress of a noble and chivalrous nature.  Yes, gentle reader, start not at the word =chivalrous=.  It may be, from his previous conversation on woman’s foibles, that you have been, ready to form a very different opinion,—­but you are mistaken; and so will you often find yourself in the journey of life, should you thus estimate character in general.  Deceit frequently lurks beneath the smile and honeyed words of the flatterers, and he who believes that the avenues to woman’s heart are only accessible by such means, proves, beyond a doubt, that he has associated with none but the frivolous, the vain and weak-minded of the sex.  Poor, indeed, is that compliment which man pays to woman, when he expatiates on her sparkling eyes, her flowing tresses, and ruby lips, as though she were only a beautifully fashioned creature of clay, while he virtually ignores the existence of those higher and holier powers which she shares in common with man, and which make her, in proportion to their wise and careful development, akin to the angels.

Arthur Bernard was no flatterer, it is true, but chivalrous in every sense of the word.  A keen appreciator of all that is honorable and high-minded, he could not stoop to those petty meanesses, which too often characterize the conduct of those who flatter themselves with the name of =gentleman=,—­a title which Tennyson forcibly describes as

    “Usurped by every charlatan,
    And soiled with all ignoble use.”