ained away and been silent, that would have been sufficient. But he
came here to enjoy himself, as he looked about the park which he thought
to be his own, and insulted me because I would not die at once and leave
him in possession. And then he was fool enough to make way for you
again, and did not perceive that by getting rid of your creditors he
once again put you into a position to be his rival. I don't know whether
I hate him most for the hardness of his heart, or despise him for the
slowness of his intellect."

During the time that these words had been spoken Miss Scarborough had
once or twice come into the room, and besought her brother to take some
refreshment which she offered him, and then give himself up to rest. But
he had refused to be guided by her till he had come to a point in the
conversation at which he had found himself thoroughly exhausted. Now she
came for the third time, and that period had arrived, so that Mountjoy
was told to go about his business, and shoot birds or hunt foxes, in
accordance with his natural proclivities. It was then three o'clock on a
gloomy December afternoon, and was too late for the shooting of birds;
and as for the hunting of foxes, the hounds were not in the
neighborhood. So he resolved to go through the house, and look at all
those properties which were so soon to become his own. And he at once
strolled into the library. This was a long, gloomy room, which contained
perhaps ten thousand volumes, the greater number of which had, in the
days of Mountjoy's early youth, been brought together by his own father;
and they had been bound in the bindings of modern times, so that the
shelves were bright, although the room itself was gloomy. He took out
book after book, and told himself, with something of sadness in his
heart, that they were all "caviare" to him. Then he reminded himself
that he was not yet thirty years of age, and that there was surely time
enough left for him to make them his companions.

He took one at random, and found it to be a volume of Clarendon's
"History of the Rebellion." He pitched upon a sentence in which he
counted that there were sixteen lines, and when he began to read it, it
became to him utterly confused and unintelligible. So he put it back,
and went to another portion of the room and took down Wittier's
"Hallelujah;" and of this he could make neither head nor tail. He was
informed, by a heading in the book itself, that a piece of poetry was to
be