not flinching from routine task or even from the healthy efforts
necessary for subsistence. But there will ever be present to the
mind of the ambitious man the idea of something to be done over and
above the mere earning of his bread;--and the ambition may be very
strong, though the fibre be lacking. Such a one will endure an
agony protracted for years, always intending, never performing,
self-accusing through every wakeful hour, self-accusing almost
through every sleeping hour. The work to be done is close there
by the hand, but the tools are loathed, and the paraphernalia of
it become hateful. And yet it can never be put aside. It is to be
grasped to-morrow, but on every morrow the grasping of it becomes
more difficult, more impossible, more revolting. There is no
peace, no happiness for such a man;--and such a one was Sir Thomas
Underwood.

In this strait he had been tempted to make another effort in
political life, and he had made it. There had been no difficulty in
this,--only that the work itself had been so disagreeable, and that
he had failed in it so egregiously. During his canvass, and in all
his intercourse with the Griffenbottomites, he had told himself,
falsely, how pleasant to him it would be to return to his books;--how
much better for him would be a sedentary life, if he could only bring
himself to do, or even attempt to do, the work which he had appointed
for himself. Now he had returned to his solitude, had again dragged
out his papers, his note-book, his memoranda, his dates, and yet he
could not in truth get into his harness, put his neck to the collar,
and attempt to drag the burden up the hill.

He was sitting alone in his room in this condition, with a book
in his hand of no value to his great purpose, hating himself and
wretched, when Stemm opened his door, ushering Patience and Mary
Bonner into his room. "Ah, my dears," he said, "what has brought
you up to London? I did not think of seeing you here." There was
no expression of positive displeasure in his voice, but it was
understood by them all, by the daughter, by the cousin, by old Stemm,
and by Sir Thomas himself, that such a visit as this was always to be
regarded more or less as an intrusion. However, he kissed them both,
and handed them chairs, and was more than usually civil to them.

"We do so want to hear about Percycross, papa," said Patience.

"There is nothing to be told about Percycross."

"Are you to stand again, papa?"

"N