tive minors. Ethel was all that was bright and beautiful but--but
she was engaged to Lord Kew. The shrewd kind confidant used gently to
hint the sad fact to the impetuous hero of this piece. The impetuous
hero knew this quite well. As he was sitting over his painting-board he
would break forth frequently, after his manner, in which laughter and
sentiment were mingled, and roar out with all the force of his healthy
young lungs----

"But her heart it is another's, she never--can--be--mine;"

and then hero and confidant would laugh each at his drawing-table. Miss
Ethel went between the two gentlemen by the name of Alice Grey.

Very likely, Night, the Grey Mentor, had given Clive Newcome the benefit
of his sad counsel. Poor Belsize's agony, and the wretchedness of the
young lady who shared in the desperate passion, may have set our young
man a-thinking; and Lord Kew's frankness and courage, and honour,
whereof Clive had been a witness during the night, touched his heart
with a generous admiration, and manned him for a trial which he felt was
indeed severe. He thought of the dear old father ploughing the seas on
the way to his duty, and was determined, by Heaven's help, to do his
own. Only three weeks since, when strolling careless about Bonn he had
lighted upon Ethel and the laughing group of little cousins, he was
a boy as they were, thinking but of the enjoyment of the day and the
sunshine, as careless as those children. And now the thoughts and
passions which had sprung up in a week or two, had given him an
experience such as years do not always furnish; and our friend was to
show, not only that he could feel love in his heart, but that he could
give proof of courage, and self-denial, and honour.

"Do you remember, J. J.," says he, as boots and breeches went plunging
into the portmanteau, and with immense energy, he pummels down one upon
the other, "do you remember" (a dig into the snowy bosom of a dress
cambric shirt) "my dear old father's only campaign story of his running
away" (a frightful blow into the ribs of a waistcoat), "running away at
Asseer-Ghur?"

"Asseer-What?" says J. J. wondering.

"The siege of Asseer-Ghur!" says Clive, "fought in the eventful year
1803: Lieutenant Newcome, who has very neat legs, let me tell you,
which also he has imparted to his descendants, had put on a new pair of
leather breeches, for he likes to go handsomely dressed into action. His
horse was shot, the enemy were upon hi