ustration: The "Full Moon" at St. Diddulph's.]

"Nonsense," said Stanbury. "He's not been taught at all. It's
Nature."

"Nature that he should be afraid of his own father! He did not cry
when he was with you."

"No;--as it happened, he did not. I played with him when I was at
Nuncombe; but, of course, one can't tell when a child will cry, and
when it won't."

"My darling, my dearest, my own son!" said Trevelyan, caressing the
child, and trying to comfort him; but the poor little fellow only
cried the louder. It was now nearly two months since he had seen his
father, and, when age is counted by months only, almost everything
may be forgotten in six weeks. "I suppose you must take him back
again," said Trevelyan, sadly.

"Of course I must take him back again. Come along, Louey, my boy."

"It is cruel;--very cruel," said Trevelyan. "No man living could love
his child better than I love mine;--or, for the matter of that, his
wife. It is very cruel."

"The remedy is in your own hands, Trevelyan," said Stanbury, as he
marched off with the boy in his arms.

Trevelyan had now become so accustomed to being told by everybody
that he was wrong, and was at the same time so convinced that he was
right, that he regarded the perversity of his friends as a part of
the persecution to which he was subjected. Even Lady Milborough,
who objected to Colonel Osborne quite as strongly as did Trevelyan
himself, even she blamed him now, telling him that he had done
wrong to separate himself from his wife. Mr. Bideawhile, the old
family lawyer, was of the same opinion. Trevelyan had spoken to Mr.
Bideawhile as to the expediency of making some lasting arrangement
for a permanent maintenance for his wife; but the attorney had told
him that nothing of the kind could be held to be lasting. It was
clearly the husband's duty to look forward to a reconciliation, and
Mr. Bideawhile became quite severe in the tone of rebuke which he
assumed. Stanbury treated him almost as though he were a madman. And
as for his wife herself--when she wrote to him she would not even
pretend to express any feeling of affection. And yet, as he thought,
no man had ever done more for a wife. When Stanbury had gone with the
child, he sat waiting for him in the parlour of the public-house, as
miserable a man as one could find. He had promised himself something
that should be akin to pleasure in seeing his boy;--but it had been
all disappointment and pain. What was i