m Gawtrey would not have cared three straws for the
curse of Damocles. The sword over his head would never have spoiled his
appetite! He had lately, too, taken to drinking much more deeply than he
had been used to do--the fine intellect of the man was growing thickened
and dulled; and this was a spectacle that Morton could not bear to
contemplate. Yet so great was Gawtrey's vigour of health, that, after
draining wine and spirits enough to have despatched a company of
fox-hunters, and after betraying, sometimes in uproarious glee,
sometimes in maudlin self-bewailings, that he himself was not quite
invulnerable to the thyrsus of the god, he would--on any call on his
energies, or especially before departing on those mysterious expeditions
which kept him from home half, and sometimes all, the night--plunge his
head into cold water--drink as much of the lymph as a groom would have
shuddered to bestow on a horse--close his eyes in a doze for half an
hour, and wake, cool, sober, and collected, as if he had lived according
to the precepts of Socrates or Cornaro!

But to return to Morton. It was his habit to avoid as much as possible
sharing the good cheer of his companion; and now, as he entered the
Champs Elysees, he saw a little family, consisting of a young mechanic,
his wife, and two children, who, with that love of harmless recreation
which yet characterises the French, had taken advantage of a holiday in
the craft, and were enjoying their simple meal under the shadow of the
trees. Whether in hunger or in envy, Morton paused and contemplated the
happy group. Along the road rolled the equipages and trampled the steeds
of those to whom all life is a holiday. There, was Pleasure--under those
trees was Happiness. One of the children, a little boy of about six
years old, observing the attitude and gaze of the pausing wayfarer, ran
to him, and holding up a fragment of a coarse kind of cake, said to him,
willingly, "Take it--I have had enough!" The child reminded Morton of
his brother--his heart melted within him--he lifted the young Samaritan
in his arms, and as he kissed him, wept.

The mother observed and rose also. She laid her hand on his own: "Poor
boy! why do you weep?--can we relieve you?"

Now that bright gleam of human nature, suddenly darting across the
sombre recollections and associations of his past life, seemed to Morton
as if it came from Heaven, in approval and in blessing of this attempt
at reconciliation to h