thoughtlessness he would have looked with amazement upon any one who
would have suggested that there might be a drawback to the happiness
which he was portraying before his mind. Yet surely this thing came
most severely upon him. He gave up the most, for he gave himself. To
save Chetwynde, he was unconsciously selling his own soul. He was
bartering his life. All his future depended upon this hasty act of a
moment. The happiness of the mature man was risked by the thoughtless
act of a boy. If in after-life this truth came home to him, it was
only that he might see that the act was irrevocable, and that he must
bear the consequences. But so it is in life.

That evening, after the General had retired, Guy and his father sat
up far into the night, discussing the future which lay before them.
To each of them the future marriage seemed but a secondary event, an
accident, an episode. The first thing, and almost the only thing, was
the salvation of Chetwynde. Those day-dreams which they had cherished
for so many years seemed now about to be realized, and Chetwynde
would be restored to all its former glory. Now, for the first time,
each let the other see, to the full, how grievous the loss would have
been to him.

It was not until after all the future of Chetwynde had been
discussed, that the thoughts of Guy's engagement occurred to his
father.

"But, Guy," said he, "you are forgetting one thing. You must not in
your joy lose sight of the important pledge which has been demanded
of you. You have entered upon a very solemn obligation, which we both
are inclined to treat rather lightly."

"Of course I remember it, Sir; and I only wish it were something
twenty times as hard that I could do for the dear old General,"
answered Guy, enthusiastically.

"But, my boy, this may prove a severe sacrifice in the future,"
said Lord Chetwynde, thoughtfully.

"What? To marry, father? Of course I shall marry some time; and as to
the question of whom, why, so long as she is a lady (and General
Pomeroy's daughter must be this), and is not a fright (I own I hate
ugly women), I don't care who she is. But the daughter of such a man
as that ought to be a little angel, and as beautiful as I could
desire. I am all impatience to see her. By-the-way, how old is she?"

"Ten years old."

"Ten years!" echoed Guy, laughing boisterously. "I need not distress
myself, then, about her personnel for a good many years at any rate.
But, I say, father, i