zes
and distinctions, which for the moment, at least, made my heart beat
loud and my breath come quick. But still, even then I felt (was it an
unreasonable pride?) that there was something that jarred, something
that humbled, in the thought of holding all my fortunes as a dependency
on the father of the woman I loved, but might not aspire to; something
even of personal degradation in the mere feeling that I was thus to be
repaid for a service, and recompensed for a loss. But these were not
reasons I could advance; and, indeed, so for the time did Trevanion's
generosity and eloquence overpower me that I could only falter out my
thanks and my promise that I would consider and let him know.

"With that promise he was forced to content himself; he told me to
direct to him at his favorite country seat, whither he was going that
day, and so left me. I looked round the humble parlor of the mean
lodging-house, and Trevanion's words came again before me like a flash
of golden light. I stole into the open air and wandered through the
crowded streets, agitated and disturbed."

CHAPTER X.

Several days elapsed, and of each day my father spent a considerable
part at Vivian's lodgings. But he maintained a reserve as to his
success, begged me not to question him, and to refrain also for the
present from visiting my cousin. My uncle guessed or knew his brother's
mission; for I observed that whenever Austin went noiseless away, his
eye brightened, and the color rose in a hectic flush to his cheek. At
last my father came to me one morning, his carpet-bag in his hand, and
said, "I am going away for a week or two. Keep Roland company till I
return."

"Going with him?"

"With him."

"That is a good sign."

"I hope so; that is all I can say now."

The week had not quite passed when I received from my father the letter
I am about to place before the reader; and you may judge how earnestly
his soul must have been in the task it had volunteered, if you
observe how little, comparatively speaking, the letter contains of the
subtleties and pedantries (may the last word be pardoned, for it is
scarcely a just one) which ordinarily left my father,--a scholar even in
the midst of his emotions. He seemed here to have abandoned his books,
to have put the human heart before the eyes of his pupil, and said,
"Read and un-learn!"

To Pisistratus Caxton.

My Dear Son,--It were needless to tell you all the earlier
difficulties I hav