his guest.

"I scarcely expected you before six; and how have you borne the
journey?" cried he, taking a seat beside the sofa. A gentle motion of
the eyebrows gave the reply.

"Well, well, you'll be all right after the soup. Marcom, serve the
dinner at once. I'll not dress. And mind, no admittance to any one."

"You have heard from Upton?" asked Glencore.

"Yes."

"And satisfactorily?" asked he, more anxiously.

"Quite so; but you shall know all by and by. I have got mackerel for
you. It was a favorite dish of yours long ago, and you shall taste such
mutton as your Welsh mountains can't equal. I got the haunch from the
Ardennes a week ago, and kept it for you."

"I wish I deserved such generous fare; but I have only an invalid's
stomach," said Glencore, smiling faintly.

"You shall be reported well, and fit for duty to-day, or my name is not
George Harcourt. The strongest and toughest fellow that ever lived could
n't stand up against the united effects of low diet and low spirits.
To act generously and think generously, you must live generously,
take plenty of exercise, breathe fresh air, and know what it is to be
downright weary when you go to bed,--not bored, mark you, for that's
another thing. Now, here comes the soup, and you shall tell me whether
turtle be not the best restorative a man ever took after twelve hours of
the road."

Whether tempted by the fare, or anxious to gratify the hospitable wishes
of his host, Glencore ate heartily, and drank what for his abstemious
habit was freely, and, so far as a more genial air and a more ready
smile went, fully justified Harcourt's anticipations.

"By Jove! you 're more like yourself than I have seen you this many a
day," said the Colonel, as they drew their chairs towards the fire,
and sat with that now banished, but ever to be regretted, little
spider-table, that once emblematized after-dinner blessedness, between
them. "This reminds one of long ago, Glencore, and I don't see why we
cannot bring to the hour some of the cheerfulness that we once boasted."

A faint, very faint smile, with more of sorrow than joy in it, was the
other's only reply.

"Look at the thing this way, Glencore," said Harcourt, eagerly. "So long
as a man has, either by his fortune or by his personal qualities, the
means of benefiting others, there is a downright selfishness in shutting
himself up in his sorrow, and saying to the world, 'My own griefs are
enough for me; I 'll take no