at to do with it?'

'Thank Heaven, nothing whatever.'

'I bore you,' said Harvey, laughing. 'Well, I read little or nothing,
except what I can use for Hughie. We're doing the geography of Asia,
and I try to give him a few clear notions. Do you remember the idiotic
way in which they used to teach us geography? I loathed the
lesson.--That reminds me; Henrietta Winter is dead.'

'Is she? How did it remind you?'

'Why, because Morphew is going to New Zealand. I had a letter from him
this morning. Here it is. "I heard yesterday that H. W. is dead. She
died a fortnight ago, and a letter from her mother has only just
reached me in a roundabout way. She had been ailing for some time. They
suspected drains, and had workmen in, with assurance that all had been
put right. Since H.'s death the drains have again been examined, and it
was found that the men who came before so bungled and scamped their
work that an abominable state of things was made much worse."--Those
fellows will shout nobly for the Empire one of these days!--"I never
saw her, but she spoke of me just before the end; spoke very kindly,
says her mother. Damnation! I can write no more about it. I know you
don't care to hear from me, but I'll just say that I'm going out to New
Zealand. I don't know what I shall do there, but a fellow has asked me
to go with him, and it's better than rotting here. It may help me to
escape the devil yet; if so, you shall hear. Goodbye!"'

He thrust the letter back into his pocket.

'I rather thought the end would be pyrogallic acid.'

'He has the good sense to prefer ozone,' said Morton.

'For a time, at all events.--Look behind you. The young rascal is
creeping this way. He'd rather sit and listen to our talk than be with
the other youngsters. That's wrong, you know.'

Morton look round, and saw Hugh Rolfe. Seven years old now; slight, and
with little or no colour in his cheeks; a wistful, timid smile on the
too intelligent face. He was gazing towards his father, and evidently
wished to draw near, yet feared that his presence might not be welcome.
Morton beckoned him, and at once he ran and threw himself upon the
grass by his father's side.

'Tired of playing?' asked Harvey, with voice and look which betrayed a
tenderness he was always trying to conceal.

'A little tired. We are going to have tea soon.--May I look at this
book, Father?'

'No pictures.'

'I don't mind.--Yes, there's a picture; a soldier!'

Interest qui