avorite in every
other house he entered, received but a chill welcome at home. A prophet
has no honor in his own country, and the hearth where a man's own kin
are seated is too often the one to nurture the cockatrice's eggs of
ill-nature and injustice against him. Thank Heaven there are others
where the fire burns brighter, and the smiles are fonder for him. It
were hard for some of us if we were dependent on the mercies of our "own
family."

The old Count gave him this night but a distant welcome, for Maximilian
was there to "damn" his brother with "faint praise," and had been
pouring into his father's ear tales of "poor Waldemar's losses at play."
All that Falkenstein said, his sisters took up, contradicted, and jarred
upon, till he, fairly out of patience, lapsed into silence, only broken
by a sarcasm deftly flung at Maximillian to floor him completely in his
orthodoxy or ethics. He was glad to bid the governor good night; and
leaving them to hold a congress over his skepticism, radicalism, and
other dangerous opinions, he walked through the streets, and swore
slightly, with his pipe between his teeth, as he opened his own door.

"Since my father prefers Max to me, let him have him," thought Waldemar,
smoking, and undressing himself. "If people choose to dictate to me or
misjudge me, let them go; and if they have not penetration enough to
judge what I am, I shall not take the trouble to show them."

But, nevertheless, as he thus resolved, Falkenstein smoked hard and
fast, for he was fond of the old Count, and felt keenly his desertion;
for, steel himself as he might, egotist as he might call himself,
Waldemar was quick in his susceptibilities and tenacious in his
attachments.

Since Falkenstein had got intimate with Valerie L'Estrange in one ball
you are pretty sure that week after week did not lessen their
friendship. He was amused, and past memories of women he had wooed, and
won, and left, certain passages in his life where such had reproached
him, not always deservedly, never presented themselves to check him in
his new pursuit. It is pleasant to a naturalist to study a butterfly
pinned to the wall; the rememberance that the butterfly may die of the
sport does not occur to him, or, at least, never troubles him.

So Falkenstein called to Lowndes Square, and lent her books, and gave
her a little Skye of his, and met her occasionally by accident on
purpose in Kensington Gardens, where Valerie, according to Mrs.