ps of a kind heart that that
kiss came. I returned it without a word; and putting her down gently,
descended the stairs, and was in the streets. But I had not got far
before I heard my father's voice; and he came up, and hooking his
arm into mine, said, "Are there not two of us that suffer? Let us be
together!" I pressed his arm, and we walked on in silence. But when
we were near Trevanion's house, I said hesitatingly, "Would it not be
better, sir, that I went in alone? If there is to be an explanation
between Mr. Trevanion and myself, would it not seem as if your presence
implied either a request to him that would lower us both, or a doubt of
me that--"

"You will go in alone, of course; I will wait for you--"

"Not in the streets--oh, no! father," cried I, touched inexpressibly.
For all this was so unlike my father's habits that I felt remorse to
have so communicated my young griefs to the calm dignity of his serene
life.

"My son, you do not know how I love you; I have only known it myself
lately. Look you, I am living in you now, my first-born; not in my other
son,--the Great Book: I must have my way. Go in; that is the door, is it
riot?"

I pressed my father's hand, and I felt then, that while that hand could
reply to mine, even the loss of Fanny Trevanion could not leave the
world a blank. How much we have before us in life, while we retain
our parents! How much to strive and to hope for! what a motive in the
conquest of our sorrow, that they may not sorrow with us!

CHAPTER III.

I entered Trevanion's study. It was an hour in which he was rarely at
home, but I had not thought of that; and I saw without surprise that,
contrary to his custom, he was in his arm-chair, reading one of his
favorite classic authors, instead of being in some committee-room of the
House of Commons.

"A pretty fellow you are," said he, looking up, "to leave me all
the morning, without rhyme or reason! And my committee is
postponed,--chairman ill. People who get ill should not go into the
House of Commons. So here I am looking into Propertius: Parr is
right; not so elegant a writer as Tibullus. But what the deuce are
you about?--why don't you sit down? Humph! you look grave; you have
something to say,--say it!"

And, putting down Propertius, the acute, sharp face of Trevanion
instantly became earnest and attentive.

"My dear Mr. Trevanion," said I, with as much steadiness as I could
assume, "you have been most kind to me;