by informing him that, but for the date and dress, I should conceive it to be the likeness of one of my pupils; who, had he not been the only son of a wealthy Northamptonshire baronet, would probably have risen to the bench.

"Not John Woolston, surely?' cried my host. And on my answering in the affirmative, 'Natural enough,' was his reply ;-' the portrait is that of his great grandfather.'

Deeply gratified by Farmer's careless compliment, which afforded him the only thrill of pleasure he had experienced for months, Woolston hesitated to pursue his inquiries.

But the quick eye of the old lawyer had already detected not only his momentary emotion, but his profound depression.

"Come and dine with me to-day, and I will tell you some remarkable traits of this quaint kinsman of yours," said he. "No, not at Lincoln's Inn," he added, in reply to Woolston's inquiring look; "at my new chambers, in the Albany. Old Margaret, whom you used to

mised was, that, in any extremity, he would apply to Farmer rather than to another per

son.

"You had best, I can tell you," rejoined the old lawyer, shaking his hand cordially at parting, or, by Jupiter! I will write a begging-letter in your name to old Adam Wraysbury, and humble your false pride in the dust."

CHAPTER IV.

THE elation derived by the solitary barrister from this renewal of friendship with a man he esteemed so highly, was of short continuance. To the utter injury of his professional duties, he was shortly afterwards summoned to Ramsgate. The united fortitude of Mrs. Woolston and her sister was not equal to a domestic calamity, to which the sickliness of the little boy assigned peculiar importance. Both children were dangerously ill of scarlet fever; and Sophia feared that their mother also was sickening.

Poor Woolston started directly; and in the

call Mrs. Dalgairns, migrated with me when I abjured the law and its domains; and is as good a hand as hand as ever at pepper-pot. The old Léoville, too, is none the worse for its transit. Half-past six, therefore; and as long an evening as your business engagements will admit."

Woolston's engagements, alas! admitted of a very long evening: and on his return from the retired lawyer's cheerful apartments, to his own fusty, sordid, ill-conditioned chamber, he could not recollect that a word had passed touching the originalities of old Adam Wraysbury. But, in addition to some excellent claret, he had imbibed a vein of equally genuine philosophy. Old Farmer was one of those who, regarding this world as a place where much work is to be done, but where enjoyments physical and moral abound in proportion,—a field which it depends upon ourselves to clear of brambles and plant with fruit and flowers,-scouted the idea of despondency. He denounced it as the cowardice

of a diseased mind. To him, a hypped man was a fit inmate for a hospital; and he endeavoured to cheer his young friend into nobler thoughts and better feelings.

"You contemplate your duties and destinies as confined to too low a sphere, my dear Woolston," argued he. "A very short distance before you, lie prospects equally permanent and brilliant, for which half the men in the kingdom would be thankful. Your birthright, both of intellect and fortune, secures you eminence. Meanwhile, if you be not too proud to accept the offer, my house and purse are open to you. Nay, if you be too proud, as that sudden flush upon your cheek leads me to fear, you shall pay me interest for my money, sir; a fraction more, too, than I can obtain from public securities, and thus confer an obligation, instead of receiving one."

Warm thanks were all that old Farmer received in return for his offer. It was not in the nature of Woolston to accept the aid of a friend as generously as it was offered. All he pro