y all but a few, a very few friends. My Lord Castlemallard,
who was his guardian, of course, knows; and to me he disclosed himself
by letter; and we keep his secret; though it matters little who knows
it, for it seems to me he's as unhappy as aught could ever make him. The
townspeople take him for his cousin, who squandered his fortune in
Paris; and how is he the better of their mistake, and how were he the
worse if they knew him for whom he is? 'Tis an unhappy family--a curse
haunts it. Young in years, old in vice, the wretched nobleman who lies
in the vault, by the coffin of that old aunt, scarcely better than
himself, whose guineas supplied his early profligacy--alas! he ruined
his ill-fated, beautiful cousin, and she died heart-broken, and her
little child, both there--in that melancholy and contaminated house.'

So he rambled on, and from one tale to another, till little Lily's early
bed-hour came.

I don't know whether it was Doctor Walsingham's visit in the morning,
and the chance of hearing something about it, that prompted the unquiet
Tom Toole to roll his cloak about him, and buffet his way through storm
and snow, to Devereux's lodgings. It was only a stone's-throw; but even
that, on such a night, was no trifle.

However, up he went to Devereux's drawing-room, and found its handsome
proprietor altogether in the dumps. The little doctor threw off his
sleety cloak and hat in the lobby, and stood before the officer fresh
and puffing, and a little flustered and dazzled after his romp with the
wind.

Devereux got up and received him with a slight bow and no smile, and a
'Pray take a chair, Doctor Toole.'

'Well, this _is_ a bright fit of the dismals,' said little Toole,
nothing overawed. 'May I sit near the fire?'

'Upon it,' said Devereux, sadly.

'Thank'ee,' said Toole, clapping his feet on the fender, with a grin,
and making himself comfortable. 'May I poke it?'

'Eat it--do as you please--anything--everything; play that fiddle
(pointing to the ruin of Puddock's guitar, which the lieutenant had left
on the table), or undress and go to bed, or get up and dance a minuet,
or take that pistol, with all my heart, and shoot me through the head.'

'Thank'ee, again. A fine choice of amusements, I vow,' cried the jolly
doctor.

'There, don't mind me, nor all I say, Toole. I'm, I suppose, in the
vapours; but, truly, I'm glad to see you, and I thank you, indeed I do,
heartily, for your obliging visit; 'tis very