there all the
evening in a dismal sulk. Sometimes he was gayer even than his old gay
self; and sometimes in a bitter vein, talking enigmatical ironies, with
his strange smile; and sometimes he was dangerous and furious, just as
the weather changes, without rhyme or reason. Maybe he was angry with
himself, and thought it was with others; and was proud, sorry, and
defiant, and let his moods, one after another, possess him as they came.

They were his young days--beautiful and wicked--days of clear, rich
tints, and sanguine throbbings, and _gloria mundi_--when we fancy the
spirit perfect, and the body needs no redemption--when, fresh from the
fountains of life, death is but a dream, and we walk the earth like
heathen gods and goddesses, in celestial egotism and beauty. Oh, fair
youth!--gone for ever. The parting from thee was a sadness and a
violence--sadder, I think, than death itself. We look behind us, and
sigh after thee, as on the pensive glories of a sunset, and our march is
toward the darkness. It is twilight with us now, and will soon be
starlight, and the hour and place of slumber, till the reveille sounds,
and the day of wonder opens. Oh, grant us a good hour, and take us to
Thy mercy! But to the last those young days will be remembered and worth
remembering; for be we what else we may, young mortals we shall never be
again.

Of course Dick Devereux was now no visitor at the Elms. All _that_ for
the present was over. Neither did he see Lilias; for little Lily was now
a close prisoner with doctors, in full uniform, with shouldered canes,
mounting guard at the doors. 'Twas a hard winter, and she needed care
and nursing. And Devereux chafed and fretted; and, in truth, 'twas hard
to bear this spite of fortune--to be so near, and yet so far--quite out
of sight and hearing.

A word or two from General Chattesworth in Doctor Walsingham's ear, as
they walked to and fro before the white front of Belmont, had decided
the rector on making this little call; for he had now mounted the stair
of Devereux's lodging, and standing on the carpet outside, knocked, with
a grave, sad face on his door panel, glancing absently through the lobby
window, and whistling inaudibly the while.

The doctor was gentle and modest, and entirely kindly. He held good
Master Feltham's doctrine about reproofs. 'A man,' says he, 'had better
be convinced in private than be made guilty by a proclamation. Open
rebukes are for Magistrates, and Courts o