him his cup of tea, and the slice of ham that had been cut for
him, and his portion of bread. That he was making an effort they all
saw. He bowed his head down over the tea to sip it and took the knife
in his hand, and then he looked up at them, for he knew that their
eyes were on him; he looked up at them to show that he could still
endure it. But, alas! he could not endure it. The struggle was too
much for him; he pushed his plate violently from him into the middle
of the table, and dropping his head upon his hands he burst forth
into audible lamentations.

Oh, my friends! be not hard on him in that he was thus weeping like a
woman. It was not for his lost wealth that he was wailing, nor even
for the name or splendour that could be no longer his; nor was it
for his father's memory, though he had truly loved his father; nor
for his mother's sorrow, or the tragedy of her life's history. For
none of these things were his tears flowing and his sobs coming so
violently that it nearly choked him to repress them. Nor could he
himself have said why he was weeping.

It was the hundred small things from which he was parting for ever
that thus disturbed him. The chair on which he sat, the carpet on
the floor, the table on which he leaned, the dull old picture of his
great-grandfather over the fireplace,--they were all his old familiar
friends, they were all part of Castle Richmond,--of that Castle
Richmond which he might never be allowed to see again.

His mother and sisters came to him, hanging over him, and they joined
their tears together. "Do not tell her that I was like this," said he
at last.

"She will love you the better for it if she has a true woman's heart
within her breast," said his mother.

"As true a heart as ever breathed," said Emmeline through her sobs.

And then they pressed him to eat, but it was in vain. He knew that
the food would choke him if he attempted it. So he gulped down the
cup of tea, and with one kiss to his mother he rushed from them,
refusing Aunt Letty's proffered embrace, passing through the line of
servants without another word to one of them, and burying himself
in the post-chaise which was to carry him the first stage on his
melancholy journey.

It was a melancholy journey all through. From the time that he
left the door at Castle Richmond that was no longer his own, till
he reached the Euston Station in London, he spoke no word to any
one more than was absolutely necessary for th