h a hundred puckers with a mother's tearful
pride; the other, the most beautiful in the world, and now softened and
elevated by every happy emotion.

* * * * *

Mr. Dunborough stood his trial at the next Salisbury assizes, and, being
acquitted of the murder of Mr. Pomeroy, was found guilty of
manslaughter. He pleaded his clergy, went through the formality of being
branded in the hand with a cold iron, and was discharged on payment of
his fees. He lived to be the fifth Viscount Dunborough, a man neither
much worse nor much better than his neighbours; and dying at a moderate
age--in his bed, of gout in the stomach--escaped the misfortune which
awaited some of his friends; who, living beyond the common span, found
themselves shunned by a world which could find no worse to say of them
than that they lived in their age as all men of fashion had lived in
their youth.

Mr. Thomasson was less fortunate. Bully Pomeroy's dying words and the
evidence of the man Tamplin were not enough to bring the crime home to
him. But representations were made to his college, and steps were taken
to compel him to resign his Fellowship. Before these came to an issue,
he was arrested for debt, and thrown into the Fleet. There he lingered
for a time, sinking into a lower and lower state of degradation, and
making ever more and more piteous appeals to the noble pupils who owed
so much of their knowledge of the world to his guidance. Beyond this
point his career is not to be traced, but it is improbable that it was
either creditable to him or edifying to his friends.

To-day the old Bath road is silent, or echoes only the fierce note of
the cyclist's bell. The coaches and curricles, wigs and hoops, bolstered
saddles and carriers' waggons are gone with the beaux and fine ladies
and gentlemen's gentlemen whose environment they were; and the Castle
Inn is no longer an inn. Under the wide eaves that sheltered the love
passages of Sir George and Julia, in the panelled halls that echoed the
steps of Dutch William and Duke Chandos, through the noble rooms that a
Seymour built that Seymours might be born and die under their frescoed
ceilings, the voices of boys and tutors now sound. The boys are divided
from the men of that day by four generations, the tutors from the man we
have depicted, by a moral gulf infinitely greater. Yet is the change in
a sense outward only; for where the heart of youth beats, there, and not
behind