re bidden, in the last chapter, Colonel
Newcome was full of the projected invasion of Barnes's territories, and
delighted to think that there was an opportunity of at last humiliating
that rascal.

"Clive does not think he is a rascal at all, papa," cries Rosey, from
behind her tea-urn; "that is, you said you thought papa judged him too
harshly; you know you did, this morning!" And from her husband's angry
glances, she flies to his father's for protection. Those were even
fiercer than Clive's. Revenge flashed from beneath Thomas Newcome's
grizzled eyebrows, and glanced in the direction where Clive sat. Then
the Colonel's face flushed up, and he cast his eyes down towards his
tea-cup, which he lifted with a trembling hand. The father and son loved
each other so, that each was afraid of the other. A war between two
such men is dreadful; pretty little pink-faced Rosey, in a sweet little
morning cap and ribbons, her pretty little fingers twinkling with a
score of rings, sat simpering before her silver tea-urn, which reflected
her pretty little pink baby face. Little artless creature! what did she
know of the dreadful wounds which her little words inflicted in the one
generous breast and the other?

"My boy's heart is gone from me," thinks poor Thomas Newcome; "our
family is insulted, our enterprises ruined, by that traitor, and my son
is not even angry! he does not care for the success of our plans--for
the honour of our name even; I make him a position of which any young
man in England might be proud, and Clive scarcely deigns to accept it."

"My wife appeals to my father," thinks poor Clive; "it is from him she
asks counsel, and not from me. Be it about the ribbon in her cap, or any
other transaction in our lives, she takes her colour from his opinion,
and goes to him for advice, and I have to wait till it is given, and
conform myself to it. If I differ from the dear old father, I wound him;
if I yield up my opinion, as I do always, it is with a bad grace, and I
wound him still. With the best intentions in the world, what a slave's
life it is that he has made for me!"

"How interested you are in your papers!" resumes the sprightly nosey.
"What can you find in those horrid politics?" Both gentlemen are looking
at their papers with all their might, and no doubt cannot see one single
word which those brilliant and witty leading articles contain.

"Clive is like you, Rosey," says the Colonel, laying his paper down,
"and