al of rain, the farmers expected to make a lot of cider,
and so forth. But at the close of the letter Miss Deacon became useful
for reproof and admonition.

"I was at Caermaen on Tuesday," she said, "and called on the Gervases and
the Dixons. Mr. Gervase smiled when I told him you were a literary man,
living in London, and said he was afraid you wouldn't find it a very
practical career. Mrs. Gervase was very proud of Henry's success; he
passed fifth for some examination, and will begin with nearly four
hundred a year. I don't wonder the Gervases are delighted. Then I went
to the Dixons, and had tea. Mrs. Dixon wanted to know if you had
published anything yet, and I said I thought not. She showed me a book
everybody is talking about, called the _Dog and the Doctor_. She says
it's selling by thousands, and that one can't take up a paper without
seeing the author's name. She told me to tell you that you ought to try
to write something like it. Then Mr. Dixon came in from the study, and
your name was mentioned again. He said he was afraid you had made rather
a mistake in trying to take up literature as if it were a profession, and
seemed to think that a place in a house of business would be more
_suitable_ and more practical. He pointed out that you had not had the
advantages of a university training, and said that you would find men who
had made good friends, and had the _tone_ of the university, would be
before you at every step. He said Edward was doing very well at Oxford.
He writes to them that he knows several noblemen, and that young Philip
Bullingham (son of Sir John Bullingham) is his most intimate friend; of
course this is _very_ satisfactory for the Dixons. I am afraid, my dear
Lucian, you have rather overrated your powers. Wouldn't it be better,
even now, to look out for some _real work_ to do, instead of wasting your
time over those silly old books? I know quite well how the Gervases and
the Dixons feel; they think idleness so injurious for a young man, and
likely to lead to _bad habits_. You know, my dear Lucian, I am only
writing like this because of my affection for you, so I am sure, my dear
boy, you won't be offended."

Lucian pigeon-holed the letter solemnly in the receptacle lettered
"Barbarians." He felt that he ought to ask himself some serious
questions: "Why haven't I passed fifth? why isn't Philip (son of Sir
John) my most intimate friend? why am I an idler, liable to fall into bad
habits?" but he