s no doubt that he'll be strong enough
to do his duty."

The word reminded me of the Major's song, and my voice was abominably
sarcastic in tone as I said to Derrick, "You no longer consider writing
your duty then?"

"Yes," he said, "but it must stand second to this. Don't be vexed,
Sydney; our plans are knocked on the head, but it is not so bad as you
make out. I have at any rate enough to live on, and can afford to wait."

There was no more to be said, and the next day I saw that strange trio
set out on their road to Bath. The Major looking more wicked when sober
than he had done when drunk; the old doctor kindly and considerate as
ever; and Derrick, with an air of resolution about that English face of
his and a dauntless expression in his eyes which impressed me curiously.

These quiet, reserved fellows are always giving one odd surprises.
He had astonished me by the vigour and depth of the first volume of
'Lynwood's Heritage.' He astonished me now by a new phase in his own
character. Apparently he who had always been content to follow where I
led, and to watch life rather than to take an active share in it, now
intended to strike out a very decided line of his own.

Chapter IV.

"Both Goethe and Schiller were profoundly convinced that Art
was no luxury of leisure, no mere amusement to charm the
idle, or relax the careworn; but a mighty influence, serious
in its aims although pleasureable in its means; a sister of
Religion, by whose aid the great world-scheme was wrought
into reality." Lewes's Life of Goethe.

Man is a selfish being, and I am a particularly fine specimen of the
race as far as that characteristic goes. If I had had a dozen drunken
parents I should never have danced attendance on one of them; yet in my
secret soul I admired Derrick for the line he had taken, for we mostly
do admire what is unlike ourselves and really noble, though it is the
fashion to seem totally indifferent to everything in heaven and earth.
But all the same I felt annoyed about the whole business, and was glad
to forget it in my own affairs at Mondisfield.

Weeks passed by. I lived through a midsummer dream of happiness, and a
hard awaking. That, however, has nothing to do with Derrick's story,
and may be passed over. In October I settled down in Montague Street,
Bloomsbury, and began to read for the Bar, in about as disagreeable a
frame of mind as can be conceived. One morning I found on