ou_ mean to be kind at any rate, uncle. I'll take your offer. I'll
read steadily, and get called, and see if I'm good for anything at the
Bar, since it seems I'm good for nothing else.'

'And you'll give up the writing, hey?' said his uncle.

'Oh, yes,' said Mark, irritably, 'anything you please. I'm a reformed
character; I'll take the pledge to abstain from ink in all forms if
you like.' It was not a very gracious way of accepting what was by no
means an unhandsome offer; but he was jarred and worried, and scarcely
knew what he said.

Mr. Lightowler was not sensitive, and was too satisfied at having
gained his object to cavil at Mark's manner of yielding. 'Very well;
that's settled,' he said. 'I'm glad you've come to your senses, I'm
sure. We'll have you on the Woolsack yet, and we'll say no more about
the other business.'

'And now,' said Mark, with a forced smile, 'I think I'll say good
night. I'll go and attack the law-books while I'm in the humour for
them.'

Upstairs in his room he got out his few elementary text-books, and
began to read with a sort of sullen determination; but he had not gone
very far in the 'descent of an estate-tail,' before he shut the book
up in a passion: 'I can't read to-night,' he said savagely; 'it isn't
easy to hug my chains all at once; it will be a long time before I
come out strong on estates-tail. If Holroyd (who says he _likes_ the
jargon) can't get a living by it, there's not much hope for me. I
loathe it! I'm sure I had a chance with those books of mine, too; but
that's all over. I must burn them, I suppose---- Who's there?' for
there was a tap at the door.

'It's me, Mark--Trixie--let me in.' Mark rose and opened the door to
Trixie, in a loose morning wrapper. 'Mark, I'm so sorry, dear,' she
said softly.

'Sorry! you ought to rejoice, Trixie,' said Mark, with a bitter laugh.
'I'm a brand from the burning--a repentant novelist, I've seen my
errors and am going to turn Lord Chancellor.'

'You mustn't be angry with them,' said Trixie. 'Dear ma is very
strict; but then she is so anxious to see you making a living, Mark,
and you know they don't give you very much at St. Peter's. And Martha
and Cuthbert can't help saying disagreeable things. Don't you think,
perhaps,' she added timidly, 'that it's better for you to give up
thinking about writing any more?'

'Well, I've done it, Trixie, at any rate. I'm not so bad as that
fellow Delobelle, in "Fromont Jeune," with his "Je n'