How pleasantly did the next day break on the “Home”! Polly Dill arrived in the best of possible spirits. A few lines from Tom had just reached them. They were written at sea; but the poor fellow's notions of latitude and longitude were so confused that it was not easy to say from whence. They were cheery, however, he was in good health, his comrades were kind-hearted creatures, and evidently recognized in him one of a station above their own. He said that he could have been appointed hospital sergeant-if he liked, but that whatever reminded him of his old calling was so distasteful that he preferred remaining as he was, the rather as he was given to believe he should soon be a corporal.

“Not that I mean to stop there, Polly; and now that I have n't got to study for it, I feel a courage as to the future I never knew before. Give my love to Mr. Conyers, and say that I 'm never tired of thinking over the last night I saw him, and of all his good nature to me, and that I hope I 'll see his father some day or other to thank him. I suppose father does n't miss me? I 'm sure mother does n't; and it 's only yourself, Polly, will ever feel a heavy heart for the poor castaway! But cheer up! for as sure as my name is Tom, I 'll not bring discredit on you, and you 'll not be ashamed to take my arm down the main street when we meet. I must close now, for the boat is going.

“P. S. I dreamed last night you rode Sid Davis's brown mare over the Millrace at Graigue. Would n't it be strange if it came true? I wish I could know it.”

“May I show this to my friend here, Polly?” said Barrington, pointing to Withering. “It's a letter he 'd like to read; and as she nodded assent, he handed it across the breakfast-table.

“What is your brother's regiment, Miss Dill?” said Stapylton, who had just caught a stray word or two of what passed.

“The Forty-ninth.”

“The Forty-ninth,” said he, repeating the words once or twice. “Let me see,—don't I know some Forty-ninth men? To be sure I do. There's Rep ton and Hare. Your brother will be delighted with Hare.”

“My brother is in the ranks, Major Stapylton,” said she, flushing a deep scarlet; and Barrington quickly interposed,—

“It was the wild frolic of a young man to escape a profession he had no mind for.”

“But in foreign armies every one does it,” broke in Stapylton, hurriedly. “No matter what a man's rank may be, he must carry the musket; and I own I like the practice,—if for nothing else for that fine spirit of camaraderie which it engenders.”

Fifine's eyes sparkled with pleasure at what she deemed the well-bred readiness of this speech, while Polly became deadly pale, and seemed with difficulty to repress the repartee that rose to her mind. Not so Miss Dinah, who promptly said, “No foreign customs can palliate a breach of our habits. We are English, and we don't desire to be Frenchmen or Germans.”

“Might we not occasionally borrow from our neighbors with advantage?” asked Stapylton, blandly.

“I agree with Miss Barrington,” said Withering,—“I agree with Miss Barrington, whose very prejudices are always right. An army formed by a conscription which exempts no man is on a totally different footing from one derived from voluntary enlistment.”

“A practice that some say should be reserved for marriage,” said Barrington, whose happy tact it was to relieve a discussion by a ready joke.

They arose from table soon after,—Polly to accompany Miss Barrington over the garden and the shrubberies, and show all that had been done in their absence, and all that she yet intended to do, if approved of; Withering adjourned to Barrington's study to pore over parchments; and Stapylton, after vainly seeking to find Josephine in the drawing-room, the flower-garden, or the lawn, betook himself with a book, the first he could find on the table, to the river's side, and lay down, less to read than to meditate and reflect.

A breezy morning of a fine day in early autumn, with slow sailing clouds above and a flickering sunlight on the grass below, besides a rippling river, whose banks are glowing with blue and purple heath-bells,—all these and a Waverley novel were not enough to distract Stapylton from the cares that pressed upon his mind; for so it is, look where we may on those whom Fortune would seem to have made her especial favorites, and we shall find some unsatisfied ambition, some craving wish doomed to disappointment, some hope deferred till the heart that held it has ceased to care for its accomplishment. To the world's eyes, here was a man eminently fortunate: already high up in the service, with health, vigor, and good looks, a reputation established for personal gallantry in the field, and an amount of capacity that had already won for him more than one distinction, and yet all these, great and solid advantages as they are, were not sufficient to give the ease of mind we call happiness.

He had debts, some of them heavy debts, but these sat lightly on him. He was one of those men creditors never crush, some secret consciousness seeming to whisper that, however ill the world may go with them for a while, in the long run they must triumph; and thus Mr. Hirman Davis, to whom he owed thousands, would have cashed him another bill to-morrow, all on the faith of that future which Stapylton talked about with the careless confidence of a mind assured.

He had enemies, too,—powerful and determined enemies,—who opposed his advancement for many a year, and were still adverse to him; but, like the creditors, they felt he was not a man to be crushed, and so he and his ill-wishers smiled blandly when they met, exchanged the most cordial greetings, and even imparted little confidences of their several fortunes with all that well-bred duplicity which so simulates friendship.

He had been crossed,—no, not in love, but in his ambition to marry one greatly above him in station; but her subsequent marriage had been so unfortunate that he felt in part recompensed for the slight she passed upon him; so that, taking it all and all, fate had never been cruel to him without a compensation.

There are men who feel their whole existence to be a hand-to-hand struggle with the world, who regard the world as an adversary to be worsted, and all whose efforts are devoted to reach that point upon which they can turn round and say, “You see that I have won the game. I was unknown, and I am famous; I was poor, and I am rich; I was passed over and ignored, and now the very highest are proud to recognize me!” Stapylton was one of these. All the egotism of his nature took this form, and it was far more in a spirit against his fellows than in any indulgence of himself he fought and struggled with Fortune. Intrusted by Withering with much of the secret history of Barring-ton's claim against the India Company, he had learned considerably more through inquiries instituted by himself, and at length arrived at the conclusion that if old Barring-ton could be persuaded to limit his demands within moderate bounds, and not insist upon the details of that personal reparation which he assumed so essential to his son's honor, a very ample recompense would not be refused him. It was to induce Barrington to take this course Stapylton had consented to come down with Withering,—so, at least, he said, and so Withering believed. Old lawyer that he was, with a hundred instincts of distrust about him, he had conceived a real liking for Stapylton, and a great confidence in his judgment. “We shall have to divide our labors here, Major,” said he, as they travelled along together; “I will leave the ladies to your care. Barrington shall be mine.” A very brief acquaintance with Miss Dinah satisfied Stapylton that she was one to require nice treatment, and what he called “a very light hand.” The two or three little baits he had thrown out took nothing; the stray bits of sentimentality, or chance scraps of high-toned principle he had addressed to her, had failed. It was only when he had with some sharpness hit off some small meanness in M'Cormick's nature that she had even vouchsafed him so much as a half-smile of approval, and he saw that even then she watched him closely.

“No,” said he, half aloud to himself, “that old woman is not one easily to be dealt with; and the younger one, too, would have a will of her own if she had but the way to use it. If Polly had been in her place,—the clever, quickwitted Polly,—she would have gone with me in my plans, associated herself in all my projects, and assured their success. Oh for a good colleague just to keep the boat's head straight when one is weary of rowing!”

“Would I do?” said a low voice near. And, on looking up, he saw Josephine standing over him, with an arch smile on her face as though she had surprised him in a confession.

“How long have you been there?” asked he, hurriedly.

“A few seconds.''

“And what have you heard me say?”

“That you wanted a colleague, or a companion of some sort; and as I was the only useless person here, I offered myself.”

“In good faith?”

“In good faith!—why not? I am more likely to gain by the association than you are; at least, if you can only be as pleasant of a morning as you were yesterday at dinner.”

“I 'll try,” said he, springing to his feet; “and as a success in these efforts is mainly owing to the amount of zeal that animates them, I am hopeful.”

“Which means a flattery at the outset,” said she, smiling.

“Only as much as your friend Mr. Withering would throw out to dispose the court in his favor; and now, which way shall we walk? Are you to be the guide, or I?”

“You, by all means, since you know nothing of the locality.”

“Agreed. Well, here is my plan. We cross the river in this boat, and take that path yonder that leads up by the waterfall. I know, from the dark shadow of the mountain, that there is a deep glen, very wild, very romantic, and very solemn, through which I mean to conduct you.”

“All this means a very long excursion, does it not?”

“You have just told me that you were free from all engagement.”

“Yes; but not from all control. I must ask Aunt Dinah's leave before I set out on this notable expedition.”

“Do nothing of the kind. It would be to make a caprice seem a plan. Let us go where you will,—here, along the river's side; anywhere, so that we may affect to think that we are free agents, and not merely good children sent out for a walk.”

“What a rebel against authority you are for one so despotic yourself!”

“I despotic! Who ever called me so?”

“Your officers say as much.”

“I know from what quarter that came,” said he; and his bronzed face grew a shade deeper. “That dilettante soldier, young Conyers, has given me this character; but I 'd rather talk of you than myself. Tell me all about your life. Is it as delightful as everything around would bespeak it? Are these trees and flowers, this sunny bank, this perfumed sward, true emblems of the existence they embellish, or is Paradise only a cheat?”

“I don't think so. I think Paradise is very like what it looks, not but I own that the garden is pleasanter with guests in it than when only Adam and Eve were there. Mr. Withering is charming, and you can be very agreeable.”

“I would I knew how to be so,” said he, seriously, “just at this moment; for I am going away from Ireland, and I am very desirous of leaving a good impression behind me.”

“What could it signify to you how you were thought of in this lonely spot?”

“More than you suspect,—more than you would, perhaps, credit,” said he, feelingly.

There was a little pause, during which they walked along side by side.

“What are you thinking of?” said she, at last

“I was thinking of a strange thing,—it was this: About a week ago there was no effort I was not making to obtain the command of my regiment. I wanted to be Lieutenant-Colonel; and so bent was I on gaining my object, that if giving away three or four years of that life that I may hope for would have done it, I 'd have closed the bargain; and now the ambition is gone, and I am speculating whether I 'll not take the cottage of your friend Major M'Cormick,—he offered it to me last night,—and become your neighbor. What say you to the project?”

“For us the exchange will be all a gain.”

“I want your opinion,—your own,” said he, with a voice reduced to a mere whisper.

“I'd like it of all things; although, if I were your sister or your daughter, I'd not counsel it.”

“And why not, if you were my sister?” said he, with a certain constraint in his manner.

“I'd say it was inglorious to change from the noble activity of a soldier's life to come and dream away existence here.”

“But what if I have done enough for this same thing men call fame? I have had my share of campaigning, and as the world looks there is wondrous little prospect of any renewal of it. These peace achievements suit your friend Conyers better than me.”

“I think you are not just to him. If I read him aright, he is burning for an occasion to distinguish himself.”

A cold shrug of the shoulders was his only acknowledgment of this speech, and again a silence fell between them.

“I would rather talk of you, if you would let me,” said he, with much significance of voice and manner. “Say would you like to have me for your neighbor?”

“It would be a pleasant exchange for Major M'Cormick,” said she, laughing.

“I want you to be serious now. What I am asking you interests me too deeply to jest over.”

“First of all, is the project a serious one?”

“It is.”

“Next, why ask advice from one as inexperienced as I am?”

“Because it is not counsel I ask,—it is something more. Don't look surprised, and, above all, don't look angry, but listen to me. What I have said now, and what more I would say, might more properly have been uttered when we had known each other longer; but there are emergencies in life which give no time for slow approaches, and there are men, too, that they suit not. Imagine such now before you,—I mean, both the moment and the man. Imagine one who has gone through a great deal in life, seen, heard, and felt much, and yet never till now, never till this very morning, understood what it was to know one whose least word or passing look was more to him than ambition, higher than all the rewards of glory.”

“We never met till yesterday,” said she, calmly.

“True; and if we part to-morrow, it will be forever. I feel too painfully,” added he, with more eagerness, “how I compromise all that I value by an avowal abrupt and rash as this is; but I have had no choice. I have been offered the command of a native force in India, and must give my answer at once. With hope—the very faintest, so that it be hope—I will refuse. Remember I want no pledge, no promise; all I entreat is that you will regard me as one who seeks to win your favor. Let time do the rest.”

“I do not think I ought to do this—I do not know if you should ask it.”

“May I speak to your grandfather—may I tell him what I have told you—may I say, 'It is with Josephine's permission—'”

“I am called Miss Barrington, sir, by all but those of my own family.”

“Forgive me, I entreat you,” said he, with a deep humility in his tone. “I had never so far forgotten myself if calm reason had not deserted me. I will not transgress again.”

“This is the shortest way back to the cottage,” said she, turning into a narrow path in the wood.

“It does not lead to my hope,” said he, despondingly; and no more was uttered between them for some paces.

“Do not walk so very fast, Miss Barrington,” said he, in a tone which trembled slightly. “In the few minutes—the seconds you could accord me—I might build the whole fortune of my life. I have already endangered my hopes by rashness; let me own that it is the fault I have struggled against in vain. This scar”—and he showed the deep mark of a sabre-wound on the temple—“was the price of one of my offendings; but it was light in suffering to what I am now enduring.”

“Can we not talk of what will exact no such sacrifice?” said she, calmly.

“Not now, not now!” said he, with emotion; “if you pass that porch without giving me an answer, life has no longer a tie for me. You know that I ask for no pledge, no promise, merely time,—no more than time,—a few more of those moments of which you now would seem eager to deny me. Linger an instant here, I beseech you, and remember that what to you may be a caprice may to me be a destiny.”

“I will not hear more of this,” said she, half angrily. “If it were not for my own foolish trustfulness, you never would have dared to address such words to one whom you met yesterday for the first time.”

“It is true your generous frankness, the nature they told me you inherited, gives me boldness, but it might teach you to have some pity for a disposition akin to it. One word,—only one word more.”

“Not one, sir! The lesson my frankness has taught me is, never to incur this peril again.”

“Do you part from me in anger?”

“Not with you; but I will not answer for myself if you press me further.”

“Even this much is better than despair,” said he, mournfully; and she passed into the cottage, while he stood in the porch and bowed respectfully as she went by. “Better than I looked for, better than I could have hoped,” muttered he to himself, as he strolled away and disappeared in the wood.