nd your late father was of mine, and how
much I stood indebted to him; but this is the first time I have made you
acquainted with any of the particulars, and now I fear I've tired you
with my tedious narration."

"Indeed you have not!" exclaimed both the young men, whilst Vernon
added, that he only regretted not knowing who the parties were during
the progress of the tale, which, had he done, he should have listened to
it with redoubled interest; for who amongst the thousands of Smiths
dispersed about the land, though he had once a father of the name, could
be expected to recognise him as part hero of a tale he had never heard
him allude to; "but pray tell me," he added, "about the poor girl you
went to see at the time the accident occurred to your horse? Did she
ever recover?"

"No," replied the squire, "she died within a few days afterwards. In
fact, as I believe I before stated, I knew she was past all hope of
recovery at the time I set off to visit her."

"And the little broken-knee'd and spavined pony you were compelled to
borrow--do pray tell us how he carried you?" interposed Frank, looking
as demure and innocent as possible.

"Badly, very badly, indeed!" replied the squire; "for the sorry brute
stumbled at nearly every third step, and at last tumbling down in real
earnest, threw me sprawling headlong into the mud; and then favoured me
with a sight of his heels, with the prospect of a couple of miles before
me to hobble home through the rain."

CHAPTER X.

Frank Trevelyan, one morning on opening his eyes, was surprised to
discover his friend, Mr Vernon Wycherley, (whose lameness was by this
time sufficiently amended to permit him to move about with the aid of a
stick,) sitting half dressed by his bedside--a very cool attire for so
chill a morning, and looking very cold and miserable.

"Hallo! old fellow, what on earth brought you here at this time of day?"
asked Frank. "The first morning visit, I believe, you've honoured me
with since we took up our quarters in this neighbourhood."

"I'm very wretched," said the poet in a faltering tone--"very unhappy."

"Unhappy!" reiterated Frank; "why, what on earth have you to make you
so, unless it be the apprehension that you may jump out of your skin for
joy at your splendid prospects! Unhappy indeed!--the notion's too absurd
to obtain a moment's credit."

"Can a man suffering under a hopeless attachment for an object too pure
almost to tread the earth--can a