ommon human instinct
which makes us desire to rise--to get above the ordinary thoroughfares
and level of life. Some such pleasure you must have in intellectual
ambition, in which the mind is the upward traveller."

"It is not the _ambition_ that pleases," replied Maltravers, "it is the
following a path congenial to our tastes, and made dear to us in a short
time by habit. The moments in which we look beyond our work, and fancy
ourselves seated beneath the Everlasting Laurel, are few. It is the work
itself, whether of action or literature, that interests and excites
us. And at length the dryness of toil takes the familiar sweetness of
custom. But in intellectual labour there is another charm--we become
more intimate with our own nature. The heart and the soul grow friends,
as it were, and the affections and the aspirations unite. Thus, we
are never without society--we are never alone; all that we have read,
learned and discovered, is company to us. This is pleasant," added
Maltravers, "to those who have no clear connections in the world
without."

"And is that your case?" asked Valerie, with a timid smile.

"Alas, yes! and since I conquered one affection,--Madame de Ventadour, I
almost think I have outlived the capacity of loving. I believe that when
we cultivate very largely the reason or the imagination, we blunt, to
a certain extent, our young susceptibilities to the fair impressions
of real life. From 'idleness,' says the old Roman poet, 'Love feeds his
torch.'"

"You are too young to talk thus."

"I speak as I feel."

Valerie said no more. Shortly afterwards Lord Doningdale approached
them, and proposed that they should make an excursion the next day to
see the ruins of an old abbey, some few miles distant.

CHAPTER X.

"If I should meet thee
After long years,
How shall I greet thee?"--BYRON.

IT was a smaller party than usual the next day, consisting only of
Lord Doningdale, his son George Herbert, Valerie and Ernest. They were
returning from the ruins, and the sun, now gradually approaching the
west, threw its slant rays over the gardens and houses of a small,
picturesque town, or, perhaps, rather village, on the high North Road.
It is one of the prettiest places in England, that town or village,
and boasts an excellent old-fashioned inn, with a large and quaint
pleasure-garden. It was through the long and straggling street that our
little party slowly rode, when the sky became suddenly overc