He inherited nothing in common with his father, but his profusion and love of company; and was utterly destitute of that kindliness of disposition and real warmth of heart, that so strongly characterised his too indulgent parent, and pleaded an excuse for many of his failings.  He was still more unlike his cousin Anthony, although personally they could scarcely be known apart.  The latter was serious and thoughtful beyond his years; was fond of quiet and retirement, preferring a book or a solitary walk to romping with Godfrey and his boisterous companions.  He had been a child of sorrow, and acquainted with grief; and though he was happy now—­too happy, he was wont to say—­the cloud which ushered in his dawn of life still cast its dark shadow over the natural gaiety and sunshine of his heart.

His mind was like a rich landscape seen through a soft summer mist, which revealed just enough of the beautiful as to make the observer wish to behold more.

Gentle, truthful, and most winningly affectionate, Anthony had to be known to be loved; and those who enjoyed his confidence never wished to transfer their good will to his dashing cousin.  He loved a few dear friends, but he shrunk from a crowd, and never cared to make many acquaintances.  He soon formed a strong attachment to his uncle; the love which nature meant for his father was lavished with prodigality on this beloved relative, who cherished for his adopted son the most tender regard.

He loved the mocking, laughter-loving, mischievous Godfrey, who delighted to lay all his naughty tricks and devilries upon his quiet cousin; while he considered himself as his patron and protector, and often gave himself great airs of superiority.  For the sake of peace, Anthony often yielded a disputed point to his impetuous companion, rather than awaken his turbulent temper into active operation.  Yet he was no coward—­on the contrary, he possessed twice the moral courage of his restless playmate; but a deep sense of gratitude to his good uncle, for the blessed change he had effected in his situation, pervaded his heart, and influenced all his actions.

CHAPTER VII.

    The weary heart may mourn
      O’er the wither’d hopes of youth,
    But the flowers so rudely shorn
      Still leave the seeds of truth.

    J.W.D.  Moodie.

And years glided on.  The trials of school, and all its joyous pastimes and short-lived sorrows, were over, and the cousins returned to spend the long-looked for and happy vacation at home.  The curly-headed rosy-cheeked boys had expanded into fine tall lads of sixteen; blithe of heart, and strong of limb, full of the eager hopes and never-to-be-realized dreams of youth.  With what delight they were welcomed by the Colonel!  With what pride he turned them round and round, and examined the improvement in form and stature of the noble boys—­wondering