a last effort to bring better convictions to the mind of his son. Till now, John Woolston had maintained in his family and neighbourhood the character of "an old head on young shoulders." His prudence, though dormant, might perhaps still be roused.

"To place the whole matter fairly before you, John," said the old man, lowering his voice to an almost confidential tone, "the fact is, that I have much to reproach myself with, concerning the state in which the Harrals property will fall into your hands. For years after my death, it will be impossible for you to reside here; unless an advantageous marriage should have supplied you, in the interim, with the means of putting the place into condition. The necessity of paying off your sisters' fortunes compelled me to neglect the necessary repairs not only of this house, which is in an all but tumble-down condition, but of my farms and out-buildings. Four years' income would be absorbed in the outlay indispensable to set all this in order."

But the old head was too old for such shallow arguments; and the shoulders were much too young to resist a shrug of impatience.

"Depend upon it, sir," pleaded Mr. Woolston in reply, "that if there were no Denny Cross in the world, and no Maria Pennington, nothing would induce me to marry for mercenary considerations. As to the terrible prospects you hold out, money for such purposes is easily obtained on mortgage; and to the consequent curtailment of our income, my wife and I will cheerfully submit."

This intimation, and the word "wife," with which it was accompanied, raised the exasperation of the irate old gentleman to its climax.

"Then, by the Lord Almighty," cried he, after swallowing at a gulp the last half of his bumper of fiery port, "I trust the crazy old roof of this mansion will fall in and crush you both, as a judgment on your ingratitude and rebellion. And never do I wish to see your face again."

After which explosion of wrath, and a few expletives very short of decorous on the part of a county magistrate, he started from his chair, and rang the bell for coffee with a degree of violence that brought the venerable butler hobbling into the room, to add, by his rubicund face, another shade of crimson to its glow.

It was no small comfort to the old servant to find Mr. Woolston quietly wiping his mouth with his doiley ere he rose from table, instead of engaged in fisticuffs with the author of his days; as, from her ladyship's premature retreat, and the loud summons of the bell, he had half expected. But no sooner had Sir Harry, after ordering coffee in the drawing-room, made as precipitate an exit as his gout would admit, than Mr. Woolston desired that his baggage might be dispatched after him to the neighbouring town of Hurdiston; whither he was about to proceed on foot.

"I have unexpected business in town, Wardlaw, and must take my chance of a place in the

mail," said he, in answer to the anxiously in

quiring looks of the old man.

"As the evening

is so fine, a walk will be pleasanter than the

phaeton."

A minute afterwards, he stepped quietly out into the shrubbery, as if for an evening stroll; and, once released from the irritating atmosphere of the stuffy dining-room, the pleasant summer air soon restored the composure which was his habitual characteristic.

And in becoming himself again, John Woolston was forced to admit that his father's opposition was no stronger than he had anticipated. In all the relations of life, Sir Harry, an obstinate old Tory of the most bigoted order, was harsh, dogged, and impracticable:-so long accustomed to have his own way, that he had become as much attached to it as to his shabby old furniture, his dilapidated family mansion, or any other of his belongings. Useless to hope for any change of domestic legislation when he had once laid down the law; and nothing

remained for his son and his son's Maria, but to make the best of their overclouded prospects.

Under such circumstances, it was no small comfort that the Penningtons were not a touchy generation. Devoid of the over-sensitiveness which selfish people dignify by the name of proper pride, they knew that the heir-apparent of Harrals was intitled, in a worldly point of view, to form a better match than with a daughter of Denny Cross; and if they did not sympathise with Sir Harry's resentments, wisely forgave them.

But this was the only point on which the discarded son could reflect with comfort, as he sauntered on towards the high road, under the shade of the Portugal laurels. Though no admonitory chime sounded in his ears from the bells of Hurdiston, he was half inclined to "turn again;" if not to submit himself to his despotic father, at least to take a kindly leave of his mother, of whom he had always been the