of things to be done--of
last wishes to be fulfilled.

"Perhaps it is better as it is, George," he said, as Bertram was
sitting by his bedside late one night.

"I am sure it is, sir," said George, not at all, however, knowing
what was the state of things which his uncle described as being
better.

"All men can't be made alike," continued the uncle.

"No, uncle; there must be rich men, and there must be poor men."

"And you prefer the latter."

Now George had never said this; and the assertion coming from his
uncle at such a moment, when he could not contradict it, was rather
hard on him. He had tried to prove to Mr. Bertram, not so much then,
as in their former intercourse, that he would in no way subject
his feelings to the money-bags of any man; that he would make no
sacrifice of his aspirations for the sake of wealth; that he would
not, in fact, sell himself for gold. But he had never said, or
intended to say, that money was indifferent to him. Much as his uncle
understood, he had failed to understand his nephew's mind. But George
could not explain it to him now;--so he merely smiled, and let the
assertion pass.

"Well; be it so," said Mr. Bertram. "But you will see, at any rate,
that I have trusted you. Why father and son should be so much unlike,
God only can understand." And from that time he said little or
nothing more about his will.

But Sir Omicron had been wrong. Mr. Bertram overlived the week, and
overlived the fortnight. We must now leave him and his relatives in
the house of sickness, and return to Arthur Wilkinson.

CHAPTER XII.

MRS. WILKINSON'S TROUBLES.

Arthur Wilkinson was received at home with open arms and warm
embraces. He was an only son, an only brother, the head and stay of
his family; and of course he was beloved. His mother wept for joy as
she saw the renewed plumpness of his cheeks, and declared that Egypt
must indeed be a land of fatness; and his sisters surrounded him,
smiling and kissing him, and asking questions, as though he were
another Livingstone. This was very delightful; but a cloud was soon
to come across all this sunshine.

Mrs. Wilkinson, always excepting what care she may have had for her
son's ill health, had not been unhappy during his absence. She had
reigned the female vicaress, without a drawback, praying daily, and
in her heart almost hourly, for the continuance in the land of such
excellent noblemen as Lord Stapledean. The curate who had taken
A