off to New Zealand, or any of the upside-down places, where he might begin by farming, and soon, with his abilities, be cock o’ the walk.  He would, perhaps, be sending us a letter to say that he preferred to break away from the mother country and establish a republic.  He’s got the same political opinions as you.  Oh! he’ll do well enough over here; of course he will.  He’s the very fellow to do well.  Knock at him, he’s hard as nails, and ’ll stick anywhere.  You wouldn’t listen to me, when I told you about this at Fairly, where some old sweetheart of the girl mistook that poor devil of a scapegoat, Algy, for him, and went pegging at him like a madman.”

“No,” said Sir William; “No, I would not.  Nor do I now.  At least,” he struck out his right hand deprecatingly, “I listen.”

“Can you tell me what he was doing when he went to Italy?”

“He went partly at my suggestion.”

“Turns you round his little finger!  He went off with this girl:  wanted to educate her, or some nonsense of the sort.  That was Mr. Ned’s business.  Upon my soul, I’m sorry for old Fleming.  I’m told he takes it to heart.  It’s done him up.  Now, if it should turn out to be Ned, would you let him right the girl by marrying her?  You wouldn’t!”

“The principle of examining your hypothesis before you proceed to decide by it, is probably unknown to you,” Sir William observed, after bestowing a considerate smile on his brother, who muffled himself up from the chilling sententiousness, and drank.

Sir William, in the pride of superior intellect, had heard as good as nothing of the charge against his son.

“Well,” said the squire, “think as you like, act as you like; all’s one to me.  You’re satisfied; that’s clear; and I’m some hundred of pounds out of pocket.  This major’s paying court to the widow, is he?”

“I can’t say that he is.”

“It would be a good thing for her to get married.”

“I should be glad.”

“A good thing for her, I say.”

“A good thing for him, let us hope.”

“If he can pay her debts.”

Sir William was silent, and sipped his wine.

“And if he can keep a tight hand on the reins.  That’s wanted,” said the squire.

The gentleman whose road to happiness was thus prescribed stood by Mrs. Lovell’s chair, in the drawing-room.  He held a letter in his hand, for which her own was pleadingly extended.

“I know you to be the soul of truth, Percy,” she was saying.

“The question is not that; but whether you can bear the truth.”

“Can I not?  Who would live without it?”

“Pardon me; there’s more.  You say, you admire this friend of mine; no doubt you do.  Mind, I am going to give you the letter.  I wish you simply to ask yourself now, whether you are satisfied at my making a confidant of a man in Robert Eccles’s position, and think it natural and just—­you do?”