'

Trixie had been waiting for Mark in the adjoining room into which she
beckoned him as he passed the door. 'How did it end?' she whispered.
'You were very quiet in there; is it settled?'

'Yes, it's settled,' he said, 'I'm to go, Trixie; I shall have to
shift for myself. They won't have me here any longer!'

'Oh, Mark!' cried Trixie. 'Take me with you, do, it will be so horrid
at home with only Martha and Cuthbert. You and I always got on
together; let me come too!'

'I can't,' said Mark, 'not yet--by-and-by, perhaps, Trixie, when I'm a
rich man, you know, we can manage it--just now I shall hardly be able
to keep myself.'

'I'll work hard at my drawing and get into the Academy. I've begun
features already, and I shall soon get into the antique--then we can
be famous together, you know.'

'We shall see,' said Mark; 'and in the meantime, Trixie, I think we
had better both go to bed.'

When he was alone again and had time to think over the day which had
proved so eventful, he could not find it in him to regret what had
happened. He had got rid of Uncle Solomon, he had cast off the wig
and gown which were to him as the garb of slavery, and the petty
restraints of his home life were gone as well; he had no sentimental
feelings about his banishment, the bosom of his family had not been a
very appreciative or sympathetic one, and he had always intended to go
forth from it as soon as he could afford it.

If he had really committed the offence for which he was to be driven
from home, he could have considered himself a most interesting martyr;
he did his best to do so as it was, but not with complete success.
Betraying a dead man's trust is scarcely heroic, and even Mark felt
that dimly, and could not dwell on his ill-treatment as he would
dearly like to have done.

But there was something exciting for him, notwithstanding, in the
future; he was to go out into the world and shift for himself, and
conquer; he would have a part, and it might be a difficult one, to
play for a season; but after that he could resume his own character
and take the place he meant to fill in the world, feeling at last that
the applause he won was his by right.

Vincent Holroyd had been unselfish in life; Mark had always recognised
that trait in his character, though the liking he had for the man had
not been much the stronger on that account--if now Vincent could see
any brief and fleeting fame which his book might gain used as the
steppi