oding over his cheroot by
the chimney-fire; friend F. B. (of whose companionship his patron was
occasionally tired) finding much better amusement with the Jolly Britons
in the Boscawen Room below. The Colonel, as an electioneering business,
had made his appearance in the club. But that ancient Roman warrior had
frightened those simple Britons. His manners were too awful for them: so
were Clive's, who visited them also under Mr. Pott's introduction; but
the two gentlemen, each being full of care and personal annoyance at
the time, acted like wet blankets upon the Britons--whereas F. B. warmed
them and cheered them, affably partook of their meals with them, and
graciously shared their cups. So the Colonel was alone, listening to the
far-off roar of the Britons' choruses by an expiring fire, as he sate by
a glass of cold negus and the ashes of his cigar.

I dare say he may have been thinking that his fire was well-nigh
out,--his cup of the dregs, his pipe little more now than dust and
ashes--when Clive, candle in hand, came into their sitting-room.

As each saw the other's face, it was so very sad and worn and pale, that
the young man started back; and the elder, with quite the tenderness of
old days, cried, "God bless me, my boy, how ill you look! Come and warm
yourself--look, the fire's out. Have something, Clivy!"

For months past they had not had a really kind word. The tender old
voice smote upon Clive, and he burst into sudden tears. They rained upon
his father's trembling old brown hand, and stooped down and kissed it.

"You look very ill too, father," says Clive.

"Ill? not I!" cries the father, still keeping the boy's hand under both
his own on the mantelpiece. "Such a battered old fellow as I am has
a right to look the worse for wear; but you, boy; why do you look so
pale?"

"I have seen a ghost, father," Clive answered. Thomas, however, looked
alarmed and inquisitive as though the boy was wandering in his mind.

"The ghost of my youth, father, the ghost of my happiness, and the best
days of my life," groaned out the young man. "I saw Ethel to-day. I went
to see Sarah Mason, and she was there."

"I had seen her, but I did not speak of her," said the father. "I thought
it was best not to mention her to you, my poor boy. And are--are you
fond of her still, Clive?"

"Still! once means always in these things, father, doesn't it? Once
means to-day, and yesterday, and forever and ever."

"Nay, my boy, you mu