and many a rough encounter was destined to the
lot of the two Henrys before they saw the shores of Europe, yet to them,
to live or to die together was happiness enough: even young Henry for a
time asked for no greater blessing--but, the first glow of filial ardour
over, he called to mind, "Rebecca lived in England;" and every exertion
which love, founded on the highest reverence and esteem, could dictate,
he employed to expedite a voyage, the end of which would be crowned by
the sight of her.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The contrast of the state of happiness between the two brothers was
nearly resembled by that of the two cousins--the riches of young William
did not render him happy, nor did the poverty of young Henry doom him to
misery. His affectionate heart, as he had described in his letter to
Rebecca, loved _persons_ rather than _things_; and he would not have
exchanged the society of his father, nor the prospect of her hand and
heart, for all the wealth and splendour of which his cousin William was
the master.

He was right. Young William, though he viewed with contempt Henry's
inferior state, was far less happy than he. His marriage had been the
very counterpart of his father's; and having no child to create affection
to his home, his study was the only relief from that domestic incumbrance
called his wife; and though, by unremitting application there (joined to
the influence of the potent relations of the woman he hated), he at
length arrived at the summit of his ambitious desires, still they poorly
repaid him for the sacrifice he had made in early life of every tender
disposition.

Striding through a list of rapid advancements in the profession of the
law, at the age of thirty-eight he found himself raised to a preferment
such as rarely falls to the share of a man of his short experience--he
found himself invested with a judge's robe; and, gratified by the exalted
office, curbed more than ever that aversion which her want of charms or
sympathy had produced against the partner of his honours.

While William had thus been daily rising in fortune's favour, poor Agnes
had been daily sinking deeper and deeper under fortune's frowns: till at
last she became a midnight wanderer through the streets of London,
soliciting, or rudely demanding, money of the passing stranger.
Sometimes, hunted by the watch, she affrighted fled from street to
street, from portico to portico; and once, unknowing in her fear which
way