Another year had come and gone, with its various changes, and the mother of the Collingwood Street household felt each day that the short life of Marmaduke Viscount Fordham had not been an unimportant one to her children.

It had of course told the most on Barbara. Her first great grief seemed to have smoothed out the harsher lines of her character, and made her gentle and tolerant as she had never been; or more truly, she had learnt charity at a deeper source. That last summer had lifted her into a different atmosphere. What she had shared with Fordham she loved. She had felt the reality of the invisible world to him, and knew he trusted to her meeting his spirit there even in this life, and the strong faith of his mother had strengthened the impression.

now that his presence was among them. She had by no means lost her vivacity. There would always be a certain crispness, drollery, and keenness about her, and she had too much of her mother’s elasticity to be long depressed; but instead of looking on with impatient criticism at good works, she had learnt to be ardent in the cause, and she was a most effective helper. To Armine, it was as if Fordham had given him back the sister of his childhood to be as thoroughly one in aims and sympathies as ever, but with a certain clearness of eye, brisk alacrity of execution, and quickness of judgment that made her a valuable assistant, the complement, as it were, of his more contemplative nature.

He had just finished his course at King’s College, and taken a fair degree, and he was examining advertisements, with a view to obtaining some employment in teaching that would put a sufficient sum in his hands to enable him to spend a year at one of the theological colleges, in preparation for Ordination. His mother was not happy about it, she never would be quite easy as to Armine’s roughing it at any chance school, and she had much rather he had spent the intervening year in working as a lay assistant to Mr. Ogilvie, who had promised to give him a title for Orders, and would direct his reading.

Armine, however, said he could neither make himself Mr. Ogilvie’s guest for a year, nor let his mother pay his expenses; also that he wished to do something for himself, and that he felt the need of definite training. All he would do, was to promise that if he should find himself likely to break down in his intended employment of tuition, he would give up in time and submit to her plan of boarding him at St. Cradocke’s.

“But,” as he said to Babie, “I don’t think it is self-will to feel bound to try to exert myself for the one great purpose of my life. I am too old to live upon mother any longer.”

“How I do wish I could do anything to help you to the year at C——. Mother has always said that she will let me try to publish ‘Hart’s-tongue Well’ when I am twenty-one!”

“Living on you instead of mother?”

“Oh no, Armie, you know we are one. Though perhaps a mere story like that is not worthy to do such work. Yet I think there must be something in it, as Duke cared for it.”

“That would be proof positive but for the author,” said Armine, smiling; “but poor Allen’s attempts have rather daunted my literary hopes.”

“I really believe Allen would write better sense now, if he tried,” said Babie. “I believe Lady Grose is making something of him!”

“Without intending it,” said Armine, laughing.

“No; but you see snubbing is wholesome diet, if it is taken with a few grains of resolution, and he has come to that now!”

For Allen had continued not only to profess to be, but to be willing to do anything to relieve his mother, and Dr. Medlicott had, with much hesitation and doubt, recommended him for what was called a secretaryship to a paralytic old gentleman, who had been, in his own estimation, eminent both in the scientific and charitable worlds, and still carried on his old habits, though quite incapable. It really was, as the Doctor honestly told Allen, very little better than being a male humble companion, for though old Sir Samuel Grose was fussy and exacting from infirmity, he was a gentleman; but he had married late in life a vulgar, overbearing woman, who was sure to show insolent want of consideration to anyone she considered her inferior. To his surprise, Allen accepted the situation, and to his still greater surprise, endured it, walking to Kensington every day by eleven o’clock, and coming home whenever he was released, at an hour varying from three to eleven, according to my Lady’s will. He became attached to the old man, pitied him, and did his best to satisfy his many caprices and to deal with his infirmities of brain and memory; but my Lady certainly was his bete noire, though she behaved a good deal better to him after she had seen him picked up in the park by Lady Fordham’s carriage. However, he made light of all he underwent from her, and did not break down even when it was known that though poor George Gould had died at New York, his widow showed no intention of coming home, and wrote confidently to her step-daughters of Elvira marrying her brother Gilbert. She was of age now, there was nothing to prevent her, and they seemed to be only waiting for a decent interval after her uncle’s death. Allen, a couple of years ago, would have made his mother and all the family as wretched as he could, and would have dropped all semblance of occupation but smoking. Now Lady Grose would not let him smoke, and Sir Samuel required him to be entertaining; but the continual worry he was bearing was making him look so ill that his mother was very anxious about him. She had other troubles. It was eighteen months since Janet Hermann had drawn her allowance. Her husband once had written in her name, saying that she was ill, but Mr. Wakefield had sent an order payable only on her signature, and it had never been acknowledged or presented! Could Janet be living? Or could she be in some such fitful state of prosperity as to be able to disregard £25?

Her mother spent many anxious thoughts and prayers on her, though the younger ones seemed to have almost forgotten her, so long it was since she had been a part of their family life. Nor did Bobus answer his mother’s letters, though he continued to write fully and warmly to Jock. As to the MS., he said he had improved upon it, and had sent a fresh one to a friend who would have none of the scruples of which physical science ought to have cured Jock. It came out in a review, but without his name, and though it was painful enough to all who cared for him, it had been shorn of several of the worst and most virulent passages; so that Jock’s remonstrance had done some good.

Jock himself had come into possession of £200, and the like sum had been left to his mother by their good old friends the Lucases, who had died, as it is given to some happy old couples to leave this world, within three days of one another.

The other John, in the last autumn, had taken both his degrees at Oxford and in London with high credit, and had immediately after obtained one of those annual appointments in his hospital which are bestowed upon the most distinguished of the students, to enable them to gain more experience; but as it did not involve residence, he continued to be one of the family in Collingwood Street. However, in the early spring, a slight hurt to his hand festered so as to make the doctors uneasy, and his sister set her heart on taking him to Fordham for Easter, for a more thorough rest than could be had at Kencroft, while the younger ones were having measles.

John, however, had by this time learnt enough of his own feelings to delay consent till he had written to ask Mrs. Evelyn whether she absolutely objected to his entertaining any future hopes of Sydney, when he should have worked his way upward, as his recent success gave him hopes of doing in time.

Sydney’s fortune was not overpowering. £10,000 was settled on each of the younger children, and it had only been Fordham’s liberality in treating Cecil as his eldest son, that had brought about his early marriage. Thus she was no such heiress that her husband would be obliged to feel as if he were living on her means, or that exertion could be dispensed with, and thus, though he must make his way before he could marry, there was no utter inequality for one who brought a high amount of trained ability and industry.

Mrs. Evelyn could only answer as she would once have answered Jock, and on these terms he went. In the meantime Sydney had rejected the honourable young rector of the next parish, and was in the course of administering rebuffs to the county member, who was so persuaded that he and Miss Evelyn were the only fit match for one another, that no implied negative was accepted by him. Her brother, whom he was coaching in his county duties, was far too much inclined to bring him home to luncheon; and in the clash and crisis, without any one’s quite knowing how it happened, it turned out that Mrs. Evelyn had been so imprudent as to sanction an attachment between her daughter and that great lout of a young doctor, Lady Fordham’s brother! Not only the M.P., but all the family shook the head and bemoaned the connection, for though it was to be a long engagement and a great secret, everybody found it out. Lucas had long made up his mind that so it would end, and told his mother that it was a relief the crisis had come. He put a good face on it, wrung his cousin’s hand with the grasp of a Hercules, observed “Well done, old Monk,” and then made the work for his final examination a plea for being so incessantly occupied as to avoid all private outpourings. And if he had very little flesh on his bones, it was hard work and anxiety about his examination.

That final ordeal was gone through at last; John Lucas Brownlow was, like his cousin, possessor of a certificate of honour and a medal, and had won both his degrees most brilliantly. He had worked the hardest and had the most talent, and his achievement was perhaps the most esteemed because of his lack of the previous training that Friar had brought from Oxford. Professors and physicians wrote his mother notes to express their satisfaction at the career of their old friend’s son, and Dr. Medlicott came to bring her a whole bouquet of gratifying praise and admiration from all concerned with him, ranging from the ability of his prize essay to the firm delicacy of his hand; and backed up by the doctor’s own opinion of the blameless conduct and excellent influence of both the cousins. And now Dr. Medlicott declared he must have a good rest and holiday, after the long strain of hard toil and study.

It came like a dream to Caroline that the conditions imposed by her husband fifteen years before, when Lucas was a mischievous imp of a Skipjack, had been thus completely worked out, not only the intellectual, but the moral and religious terms being thus fulfilled.

The two cousins had come home to dinner in high spirits at the various kind things that had been said to, and of, Jock, and discussing the various suggestions for the future that had been made to them. They thought Mother Carey strangely silent, but when they rose she called her son into the consulting room, as she still termed it.

“My dear,” she said, “this slate will tell you why this is the moment I have looked forward to from the time your dear father was taken from us with his work half done. He had been working out a discovery. He was sure of it himself, but none of the faculty would believe in it or take it up. Even Dr. Lucas thought it was a craze, and I believe it can only be tested by risky experiments. All that he had made out is in this book. You know he could not speak for that dreadful throat. This is what he wrote. I copied it again, putting in my answers lest it should fade, but these are his very words, and that is my pledge. Magnum Bonum was our playful pet name for it between ourselves.

“‘I promise to keep the Magnum Bonum a secret, till the boys are grown up, and then only to confide it to the one that seems fittest, when he has taken his degree, and is a good, religious, wise, able man, with brains and balance, fit to be trusted to work out and apply such an invention, and not make it serve his own advancement, but be a real good and blessing to all.’ And oh, Jock,” she added, “am I not thankful that after all it should have come about that you should fulfil those conditions.”

“Did you not once mean it for John?” said Jock, hastily looking up.

“Yes, when I thought that hateful money had turned you all aside.”

“Then I think he ought to share this knowledge.”

“I thought you would say so, but it is your first right.”

“Perhaps,” said Jock. “But he is superior in his own line to me. He gave himself up to this line of his own free will, not like me, as a resource. And moreover, if it should bring any personal benefit, as an accident, it would be more important to him than to me. And these other conditions he fulfils to the letter. Mother, let me fetch him.”

She kissed his brow by way of answer, and a call brought John into the room. The explanation was made, and John said, “If you think it right, Aunt Caroline. No one can quite fulfil the conditions, but two may be better than one.”

“Then I will leave you to read it together,” she said, after pointing them to the solemn words in the first page. “Oh, you cannot think how glad I am to give up my trust.”

She went upstairs to the drawing-room, and about half an hour had passed in this way, when Jock came to the door, and said, “Mother, would you please to come down.”

It was a strange, grave voice in which he spoke, and when she reached the room, they set Allen’s most luxurious chair for her, but she stood trembling, reading in their faces that there was something they hesitated to tell her. They looked at one another as if to ask which should do it, and a certain indignation and alarm seized on her. “You believe in it!” she cried, as if she suspected them of disloyalty.

“Most entirely!” they both exclaimed.

“It is a great discovery,” added Jock, “but—”

“But,” said John, as he hesitated, “it has been worked out within the last two years.”

“Not Dr. Hermann!” she cried.

“No, indeed!” said Jock. “Why?”

“Because poor Janet overheard our conversation, and obtained a sight of the book. It was her ambition. I believe it was fatal to her. She may have caught up enough of the outline to betray it. Jock, you remember that scene at Belforest?”

“I do,” said Jock; “but this is not that scoundrel. It is Ruthven, who has worked it out in a full and regular way. It is making a considerable sensation though it has scarcely yet come into use as a mode of treatment. Mother, do not be disappointed. It will be the blessing that my father intended, all the sooner for not being in the hands of two lads like us, whom all the bigwigs would scout!”

“And what I never thought of before,” said John. “You know we are so often asked whether we belong to Joseph Brownlow, that one forgets to mention it every time; but that day, when Dr. Medlicott took me to the Westminster hospital, we fell in with Dr. Ruthven, and after the usual disappointment on finding I was only the nephew and not the son, he said, ‘Joseph Brownlow would have been a great man if he had lived. I owe a great deal to a hint he once gave me?’”

“He ought to see these notes,” said Jock. “It strikes me that there is a clue here to that difficulty he mentions in that published paper of his.”

“You ought to show it to him,” said John.

“You ought,” said Jock.

“Do you know much about him?” asked Mother Carey. “I don’t think I ever saw him, though I know his name. A fashionable physician, is he not?”

“A very good man,” said John. “A great West-end swell just come to be the acknowledged head in his own line. I suppose it is just what my uncle would have been ten years ago, if he had been spared.”

“May we show it to him, mother?” said Jock. “I should think he was quite to be trusted with it. I see! I was reading an account of this method of his to Dr. Lucas one day, and he was much interested and tried to tell me something about my father; but it was after his speech grew so imperfect, and he was so much excited and distressed that I had to lead him away from the subject.”

“Yes, Dr. Lucas’s incredulity made all the difference. How old is Dr. Ruthven, John?”

“A little over forty, I should say. He may have been a pupil of my uncle’s.”

After a little more consultation, it was decided that John should write to Dr. Ruthven that his cousin had some papers of his father’s which he thought the Doctor might like to see, and that they would bring them if he would make an appointment.

And so the Magnum Bonum was no longer a secret, a burden, and a charge!

It was not easy to tell whether she who had so long been its depositary felt the more lightened or disappointed. She had reckoned more than she knew upon the honour of the discovery being connected with the name of Brownlow, and she could not quite surmount the feeling that Dr. Ruthven had somehow robbed her husband, though her better sense accepted and admired the young men’s argument that such discoveries were common property, and that the benefit to the world was the same.

Allen was a good deal struck when he understood the matter. He said it explained a good deal to him which the others had been too young to observe or remember both in the old home and afterwards.

“One wonderful part of it is how you kept the secret, and Janet too!” he said. “And you must often have been sorely tempted. I remember being amused at your disappointment and her indignation when I said I didn’t see why a man was bound to be a doctor because his father was before him; and I suppose if Bobus or I had taken to it, this Ruthven need not have been beforehand with us!”

“It would have been transgressing the conditions to hold it out to you.”

“I don’t imagine I could have done it any way,” said Allen, sighing. “I never can enter into the taste the others have for that style of thing; but Bobus might have succeeded. You must have expected it of him, at the time when he and I used to laugh at what we thought was a monomania on your part for our taking up medical science as a tribute to our father, when we did not need it as a provision.”

“You see, if any of you had taken up the study from pure philanthropy, as some people do—well, at any rate in George Macdonald’s novels—it would have been the very qualification. But I had little hope from the time that the fortune came. I dreamt the first night that Midas had turned the whole of you to gold statues, and that I was wandering about like the Princess Paribanou to find the Magnum Bonum to disenchant you.”

“It has come pretty true,” said Allen thoughtfully, “that inheritance did us all a great deal of mischief.”

“And it took a greater magnum bonum, a maximum bonum, to disenchant us,” said Armine.

“Which I fear did not come from me,” said his mother, “and I am most grateful to the dear people who applied it to you. I wish I saw my way to the disenchantment of the other two!”

“I suppose you quite despaired till John took his turn in that direction,” said Allen. “Bobus could really have done better than any of us, I fancy, but he would not have fulfilled the religious condition, as sine qua non.”

“Bobus is not really cleverer than Jock,” said Armine.

“Yet the Skipjack seemed the most improbable one of all,” said his mother. “I wish he were not deprived of it, after all!”

“Perhaps he is not,” said Armine. “He told me he had been comparing the MS. notes with Dr. Ruthven’s published paper, and he thought my father saw farther into the capabilities.”

“Well, he will do right with it. I am thankful to leave it in such hands as his and the Monk’s.”

“Then it was this,” continued Allen, “that was the key to poor Janet’s history. I suppose she hoped to qualify herself when she was madly set on going to Zurich.”

“Though I told her I could never commit it to her; but she knew just enough to make that wretched man fancy it a sort of quack secret, and he managed to persuade her that he had real ability to pursue the discovery for her. Poor Janet! it has been no magnum bonum to her, I fear. If I could only know where she is.”

A civil, but not a very eager note came in reply to John from Dr. Ruthven, making the appointment, but so dispassionately that he might fairly be supposed to expect little from the interview.

However, they came home more than satisfied. Perhaps in the interim Dr. Ruthven had learnt what manner of young men they were, and the honours they had won, for he had received them very kindly, and had told them how a conversation with Joseph Brownlow had put him on the scent of what he had since gradually and experimentally worked out, and so fully proved to himself, that he had begun treatment on that basis, and with success, though he had only as yet brought a portion of his fellow physicians to accept his system.

Lucas had then explained as much as was needful, and shown him the notes. He read with increasing eagerness, and presently they saw his face light up, and with his finger on the passage they had expected, he said, “This is just what I wanted. Why did I not think of it before?” and asked permission to copy the passage.

Then he urged the publication of the notes in some medical journal, showing true and generous anxiety that honour should be given where honour was due, and that his system should have the support of a name not yet forgotten. Further, he told his visitors that they would hear from him soon, and altogether they came home so much gratified that the mother began to lose her sense of being forestalled. She was hard at work in her own way on a set of models for dinner-table ornaments which had been ordered. “Pot-boilers” had unfortunately much more success than the imaginary groups she enjoyed.

Therefore she stayed at home and only sent her young people on a commission to bring her as many varieties of foliage and seed-vessels as they could, when Jock and Armine spent this first holiday of waiting in setting forth with Babie to get a regular good country walk, grumbling horribly that she would not accompany them.

She was deep in the moulding of a branch of chestnut, which carried her back to the first time she saw those prickly clusters, on that day of opening Paradise at Richmond, with Joe by her side, then still Mr. Brownlow to her, Joe, who had seemed so much closer to her side in these last few days. The Colonel might call Armine the most like Joe, and say that Jock almost absurdly recalled her own soldier-father, Captain Allen, but to her, Jock always the most brought back her husband’s words and ways, in a hundred little gestures and predilections, and she had still to struggle with her sense of injury that he should not be the foremost.

The maid came up with two cards: Dr. and Mrs. Ruthven. This was speedy, and Caroline had to take off her brown holland apron, and wash her hands, while Emma composed her cap, in haste and not very good will, for she could not but think them her natural enemies, though she was ready to beat herself for being so small and nasty “when they could not help it, poor things.”

However, Mrs. Ruthven turned out to be a pleasant lively table d’hote acquaintance of six or seven years ago in her maiden days, and her doctor an agreeable Scotsman, who told Mrs. Brownlow that he had been here on several evenings in former days, and did not seem at all hurt that she did not remember him. He seemed disappointed that neither of the young men was at home, and inquired whether they had anything in view. “Not definitely,” she said, and she spoke of some of the various counsels Dr. Medlicott and others had given them.

In the midst she heard that peculiar dash with which the Fordham carriage always announced itself. Little Esther might be ever so much a Viscountess, but could she ever cease to be shy? In spite of her increasing beauty and grace, she was not a success in society, for the ladies said she was slow; she had no conversation, and no dash or rattle to make up for it, and nothing would ever teach her to like strangers. They were only so many disturbances in the way of her enjoyment of her husband and her baby; and when she could not have the former to go out driving with her, she always came and besought for the company of Aunt Caroline and Babie; above all, when she had any shopping to do. She knew it was very foolish, but she could never be happy in encountering shop people, and she wanted strong support and protection to prevent herself from being made a lay figure by urgent dressmakers. Her home only gave her help and company on great occasions, for Eleanor persisted in objecting to fine people, was determined against attracting another guardsman, and privately desired her sister to abstain from inviting her. Essie was aware that this was all for the sake of a certain curate at St. Kenelm’s, and left Ellie to carry out her plan of passive resistance, becoming thus the more dependent on her aunt’s family.

In she came, too graceful and courteous for strangers to detect the shock their presence gave her, but much relieved to see them depart. Her husband was on guard, and she had a whole list of commissions for mamma, which would be much better executed without him. Moreover, baby must have a new pelisse and hat for the country, and might not she have little stockings and shoes, in case she should want to walk before the return to London?

As little Alice was but four months old, and her father’s leave was only for three months, this did not seem a very probable contingency, but Mother Carey was always ready for shopping. She had never quite outgrown the delight of the change from being a penniless school girl, casting wistful fleeting glances at the windows where happier maidens might enter and purchase.

Then there was to be a great review in two days’ time, Cecil would be with his regiment, and Esther wanted the whole family to go with her, lunch with the officers, and have a thorough holiday. Cecil had sent a message that Jock must come to have the cobwebs swept out of his brain, and see his old friends before he got into harness again. It was a well-earned holiday, as Mother Carey felt, accepting it with eager pleasure, for all who could come, though John’s power of so doing must be doubtful, and there was little chance of a day being granted to Allen.

In going out with her niece, Caroline’s eye had fallen on an envelope among the cards on the hall table, ambiguously addressed to “J. Brownlow, Esq., M.B.,” and on her return home she was met at the door by Jock with a letter in his hand.

“So Dr. Ruthven has been here,” he said, drawing her into the consulting-room.

“Yes. I like him rather. He seems to wish to make any amends in his power.”

“Amends! you dear old ridiculous mother! Do you call this amends?” holding up the letter. “He says now this discovery is getting known and he has a name for the sort of case, his practice is outgrowing him, and he wants some one to work with him who may be up to this particular matter, and all he has heard of us convinces him that he cannot do better than propose it to whichever of us has no other designs.”

“Very right and proper of him. It is the only thing he can do. I suppose it would be the making of one of you. Ah!” as she glanced over the letter. “He gives the preference to you.”

“He was bound to do that, but I think he would prefer the Monk. I wonder whether you care very much about my accepting the offer.”

“Would this house be too far off?”

“I don’t know his plans enough to tell. That was not what I was thinking of, but of what it would save her. Essie said she was not looking well; and no doubt waiting is telling on her, just as her mother always feared it would.”

“John has just not had the forbearance you have shown!”

“That is all circumstance. There was the saving her life, and afterwards the being on the spot when she was tormented about the other affair. He has no notion of having cut me out, and I trust he never will.”

“No, I do him that justice.”

“Then he has the advantage of me every way, out and out in looks and University training; and it was to him that Ruthven first took a fancy.”

“You surpassed him in your essay, and in—.

“Oh, yes, yes,” interrupted Jock hastily, “but you see work was my refuge. I had nothing to call me off. Besides, I have my share of your brains, instead of her Serenity’s; but that’s all the more reason, if you would listen to me. Depend upon it, Ruthven, if he knew all, would much prefer the connection John would have, and she would bring means to set up directly.”

“I suppose you will have it so,” replied she, looking up to him affectionately.

“I should like it,” he said. “It is the one thing for them, and waiting might do her infinite harm; the dear old Monk deserves it every way. Remember how it all turned on his desperate race. If your comfort depended on my taking it, that would come first.”

“Oh, no.”

“But there is sure to turn up plenty of other work without leaving you,” he continued. “I don’t fancy getting involved in West-end practice among swells, and not being independent. I had rather see whether I can’t work out this principle further, devoting myself to reading up for it, and getting more hospital experience to go upon.”

“I dare say that is quite right. I know it is like your father, and indeed I shall be quite content however you decide. Only might it not be well to see how it strikes John, before you absolutely make it over to him?”

“You are trying to be prudent against the grain, Mother Carey.”

“Trying to see it like your uncle. Yes, exactly as if I were trying to forestall his calling me his good little sister.”

“I don’t know what he would call me,” said Jock, “for at the bottom is a feeling that, after reading my father’s words, I had rather not, if I can help it, begin immediately to make all that material advantage out of ‘Magnum Bonum’ as you call it.”

“Well, my dear, do as you think right; I trust it all to you. It is sure to turn out the right sort of ‘Magnum Bonum’ to you—”

The Monk’s characteristic ring at the bell was heard, and the letter was, without loss of time, committed to him, while both mother and son watched him as he gathered up the sense.

“Well, this is jolly!” was his first observation. “Downright handsome of Ruthven!” and then as the colour rose a little in his face, “Just the thing for you, Jock, home work, which is exactly what you, want.”

“I’m not sure about that,” said Jock; “I don’t want to get into that kind of practice just yet. It is fitter for a family man.”

“And who is a family man if you are not?” said John. “Wasn’t it the very cause of your taking this line?”

“There’s a popular prejudice in favour of wives, rather than mothers,” said Jock. “I should have said you were more likely to fulfil the conditions.”

“Oh!” and there was a sound in that exclamation that belied the sequel, “that’s just nonsense! The offer is to you primarily, and it is your duty to take it.”

“I had much rather you did, and so had Dr. Ruthven. I want more time for study and experience, and have set my heart on some scientific appointment—”

“Come now, my good fellow—why, what are you laughing at?”

“Because you are such a good imitation of your father, my dear Johnny,” said his aunt.

“It is just what my father would say,” returned John, taking this as a high compliment; “it would be very foolish of Lucas to give up a certainty for this just because of his Skipjack element, which doesn’t want to get into routine harness. Now, don’t you think so, Mother Carey?”

“If I thought it was the Skipjack element,” she said, smiling.

“If it is not,” he said, the colour now spreading all over his face, “I am all the more bound not to let him give up all his prospects in life.”

“All my prospects! My dear Monk, do you think they don’t go beyond a brougham, and unlimited staircases?”

“I only know,” cried John, nettled into being a little off his guard, “that what you despise would be all the world to me!”

The admission was hailed triumphantly, but the Kencroft nature was too resolute, and the individual conscience too generous, to be brought round to accept the sacrifice, which John estimated at the value of the importance it was to himself, viewing what was real in Lucas’s distaste, as mere erratic folly, which ought to be argued down. Finally, when the argument had gone round into at least its fiftieth circle, Mother Carey declared that she would have no more of it. Lucas should write a note to Dr. Ruthven, accepting his proposal for one or other of them, and promising that he should know which, in the course of a few days; so that John, if he chose, could write to his father or anyone else. Meantime there was to be no allusion to “the raid of Ruthven” till the day of the review was over. It was to be put entirely off the tongue, if not out of the head!

And the two young doctors were weary enough of the subject to rejoice in obedience to her.

The day was perfect except that poor Allen was pinned fast by his tyrant, all the others gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the moment. They understood the sham fight, and recognised all the corps, with Jock as their cicerone, they had a good place at the marching past, and Esther had the crowning delight of an excellent view of Captain Viscount Fordham with his company, and at the luncheon. Jock received an absolutely affectionate welcome from his old friends, who made as much of his mother and sister for his sake, as they did of the lovely Lady Fordham for her husband’s, finding them, moreover, much more easy to get on with.