sprang into
his arms. "I began to be uneasy, and came here to inquire after you. You
have not caught cold, child?"

SOPHY.--"Oh, no."

LIONEL.--"She is the best of children. Pray, come into the inn, Mr.
Waife; no toddy, but some refreshment."

WAIFE.--"I thank you,--no, sir; I wish to get home at once. I walk
slowly; it will be dark soon."

Lionel tried in vain to detain him. There was a certain change in Mr.
Waife's manner to him: it was much more distant; it was even pettish,
if not surly. Lionel could not account for it; thought it mere whim
at first: but as he walked part of the way back with them towards the
village, this asperity continued, nay increased. Lionel was hurt; he
arrested his steps.

"I see you wish to have your grandchild to yourself now. May I call
early to-morrow? Sophy will tell you that I hope we may not altogether
lose sight of each other. I will give you my address when I call."

"What time to-morrow, sir?"

"About nine."

Waife bowed his head and walked on, but Sophy looked back towards her
boy friend, sorrowfully, gratefully; twilight in the skies that had been
so sunny,--twilight in her face that had been so glad! She looked back
once, twice, thrice, as Lionel halted on the road and kissed his hand.
The third time Waife said with unwonted crossness,--

"Enough of that, Sophy; looking after young men is not proper! What does
he mean about 'seeing each other, and giving me his address'?"

"He wished me to write to him sometimes and he would write to me."

Waife's brow contracted; but if, in the excess of grandfatherly
caution, he could have supposed that the bright-hearted boy of seventeen
meditated ulterior ill to that fairy child in such a scheme for
correspondence, he must have been in his dotage, and he had not hitherto
evinced any signs of that.

Farewell, pretty Sophy! the evening star shines upon yon elm-tree that
hides thee from view. Fading-fading grows the summer landscape; faded
already from the landscape thy gentle image! So ends a holiday in life.
Hallow it, Sophy; hallow it, Lionel! Life's holidays are not too many!

CHAPTER XVII.

By this chapter it appeareth that he who sets out on a career can
scarcely expect to walk in perfect comfort, if he exchanges his own
thick-soled shoes for dress-boots which were made for another man's
measure, and that the said boots may not the less pinch for being
brilliantly varnished.--It also showeth, for the