t.

"Are you going up to the Abbey, Tony?"

"No," said he, blushing slightly.

"Because, if you had, I'd have asked you to fetch me some fresh flowers.
Dolly is coming to dine with us, and she is so fond of seeing flowers on
the centre of the table."

"No; I have nothing to do at the Abbey. I 'm off towards Portrash."

"Why not go over to the Burnside and fetch Dolly?" said she, carelessly.

"Perhaps I may,--that is, if I should find myself in that quarter; but
I'm first of all bent on a profound piece of thoughtfulness or a good
smoke,--pretty much the same thing with me, I believe. So good-bye for a
while."

His mother looked after him with loving eyes till the tears dulled them;
but there are tears which fall on the affections as the dew falls on
flowers, and these were of that number.

"His own father,--his own father!" muttered she, as she followed the
stalwart figure till it was lost in the distance.

CHAPTER LXIII. AT THE COTTAGE BESIDE THE CAUSEWAY

I must use more discretion as to Mrs. Butler's correspondence than I
have employed respecting Skeff Damer's. What she wrote on that morning
is not to be recorded here. It will be enough if I say that her letter
was not alone a kind one, but that it thoroughly convinced him who read
it that her view was wise and true, and that it would be as useless as
ungenerous to press Dolly further, or ask for that love which was not
hers to give.

It was a rare event with her to have to write a letter. It was not,
either, a very easy task; but if she had not the gift of facile
expression, she had another still better for her purpose,--an honest
nature steadfastly determined to perform a duty. She knew her subject,
too, and treated it with candor, while with delicacy.

While she wrote, Tony strolled along, puffing his cigar or re-lighting
it, for it was always going out, and dreaming away in his own misty
fashion over things past, present, and future, till really the actual
and the ideal became so thoroughly commingled he could not well
distinguish one from the other. He thought--he knew, indeed, he ought to
be very happy. All his anxieties as to a career and a livelihood ended,
he felt that a very enjoyable existence might lie before him; but
somehow,--he hoped he was not ungrateful,--but somehow he was not so
perfectly happy as he supposed his good fortune should have made him.

"Perhaps it will come later on; perhaps when I am active and employed;
perhaps wh