es before they come that I shall be able, by reason and
affection, to keep him pure from their contaminations. Vain hope, I
fear! but still, till such a time of trial comes I will forbear to think
of my quiet asylum in the beloved old hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight: and
as Mr. Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkably fine, I
never passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicent and Esther,
either there or here. On one occasion, when Mr. Hattersley had driven
them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and
we were all enjoying ourselves in the garden--I had a few minutes'
conversation with that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing
themselves with the children.

'Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?' said he.

'No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.'

'I can't.--You don't want him, do you?' said he, with a broad grin.

'No.'

'Well, I think you're better without him, sure enough--for my part, I'm
downright weary of him. I told him I'd leave him if he didn't mend his
manners, and he wouldn't; so I left him. You see, I'm a better man than
you think me; and, what's more, I have serious thoughts of washing my
hands of him entirely, and the whole set of 'em, and comporting myself
from this day forward with all decency and sobriety, as a Christian and
the father of a family should do. What do you think of that?'

'It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.'

'Well, I'm not thirty yet; it isn't too late, is it?'

'No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the sense to
desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.'

'Well, to tell you the truth, I've thought of it often and often before;
but he's such devilish good company, is Huntingdon, after all. You can't
imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he's not fairly drunk, only
just primed or half-seas-over. We all have a bit of a liking for him at
the bottom of our hearts, though we can't respect him.'

'But should you wish yourself to be like him?'

'No, I'd rather be like myself, bad as I am.'

'You can't continue as bad as you are without getting worse and more
brutalised every day, and therefore more like him.'

I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-confounded look
he put on at this rather unusual mode of address.

'Never mind my plain speaking,' said I; 'it is from the