to hang up his ensign, the dear old Colonel accompanied
his son, parting with a sincere regret from our little ones at home, to
whom he became greatly endeared during his visit to us, and who always
hailed him when he came to see us with smiles and caresses and sweet
infantile welcome. On that day when he went away, Laura went up and
kissed him with tears in her eyes. "You know how long I have been
wanting to do it," this lady said to her husband. Indeed I cannot
describe the behaviour of the old man during his stay with us, his
gentle gratitude, his sweet simplicity and kindness, his thoughtful
courtesy. There was not a servant in our little household but was eager
to wait upon him. Laura's maid was as tender-hearted at his departure
as her mistress. He was ailing for a short time, when our cook performed
prodigies of puddings and jellies to suit his palate. The youth who held
the offices of butler and valet in our establishment--a lazy and greedy
youth whom Martha scolded in vain--would jump up and leave his supper to
carry a message to our Colonel. My heart is full as I remember the kind
words which he said to me at parting, and as I think that we were the
means of giving a little comfort to that stricken and gentle soul.

Whilst the Colonel and his son stayed with us, letters of course passed
between Clive and his family at Boulogne, but my wife remarked that
the receipt of those letters appeared to give our friend but little
pleasure. They were read in a minute, and he would toss them over to his
father, or thrust them into his pocket with a gloomy face. "Don't you
see," groans out Clive to me one evening, "that Rosa scarcely writes
the letters, or if she does, that her mother is standing over her? That
woman is the Nemesis of our life, Pen. How can I pay her off? Great God!
how can I pay her off?" And so having spoken, his head fell between his
hands, and as I watched him I saw a ghastly domestic picture before me
of helpless pain, humiliating discord, stupid tyranny.

What, I say again, are the so-called great ills of life compared to
these small ones?

The Colonel accompanied Clive to the lodgings which we had found for the
young artist, in a quarter not far removed from the old house in Fitzroy
Square, where some happy years of his youth had been spent. When sitters
came to Clive--as at first they did in some numbers, many of his
early friends being anxious to do him a service--the old gentleman was
extraord