'll see what I can manage. I must see Morrison'--and he fell
into meditation, presently breaking from it to say fretfully, 'I say,
Roland, would you reach me that tumbler?'

Never had James thought to be grateful for that name! He would gladly
have been Roland Dynevor for the rest of his days, if he could have
left behind him the transgressions of James Frost! But the poor man's
shattered thoughts had been too long on the stretch; and, without
further ceremony, Jane came in and dismissed his nephew.

Clara hardly trusted her ears when she was told shortly after, by her
uncle, that they were to go to Northwold. Roland wished it; and, poor
fellow! the board and lodging were a great object to him. He seemed to
have come to his senses now it was too late; and if Clara wished it,
and did not think it dull, there she might stay while he himself was
gone to Lima.

'A great object the other way,' Clara had nearly cried, in her
indignation that James could not be supposed disinterested in an
invitation to an old man, who probably was destitute.

Brother and uncle appeared to have left her out of the consultation;
but she was resolved not to let him be a burthen on those who had so
little already, and she called her old friend Jane to take counsel with
her, whether it would not be doing them an injury to carry him thither
at all. So much of Jane's heart as was not at Cheveleigh was at
Dynevor Terrace, and her answer was decided.

'To be sure, Miss Clara, nothing couldn't be more natural.'

'Nothing, indeed, but I can't put them to trouble and expense.'

'I'll warrant,' said Jane, 'that I'll make whatever they have go twice
as far as Charlotte ever will. Why, you know I keeps myself; and for
the rest, it will be a mere saving to have me in the kitchen! There's
no air so good for Master Oliver.'

'I see you mean to go, Jane,' said Clara. 'Now, I have to look out for
myself.'

'Bless me, Miss Clara, don't you do nothing in a hurry. Go home quiet
and look about you.'

Jane had begun to call Northwold home; and, in spite of her mournings
over the old place, Clara thought she had never been so happy there as
in her present dominion over Master Oliver, and her prospects of her
saucepans and verbenas at No. 5.

Poor Oliver! what a scanty measure of happiness had his lifelong
exertions produced! Many a human sacrifice has been made to a grim and
hollow idol, failing his devotees in time of extremity. Had it not
be