of my sufferings. For, while I know him well enough to be convinced that
nothing could move him from resolves in which he had entrenched, as in a
citadel, his pride or his creed of honour, I am sure that he would take
into his own heart all the grief which those resolves occasioned to
another's."

"You do him justice there," cried Alban; "you are a noble fellow to
understand him so well! Sir, you have in you the stuff that makes
English gentlemen such generous soldiers."

"Action, action, action," exclaimed Lionel. "Strife, strife! No other
chance of cure. Rest is so crushing, solitude so dismal."

Lo! how contrasted the effect of a similar cause of grief at different
stages of life! Chase the first day-dreams of our youth, and we cry,
"Action--Strife!" In that cry, unconsciously to ourselves, HOPE speaks
and proffers worlds of emotion not yet exhausted. Disperse the last
golden illusion in which the image of happiness cheats our experienced
manhood, and HOPE is silent; she has no more worlds to offer--unless,
indeed, she drop her earthly attributes, change her less solemn name,
and float far out of sight as "FAITH!"

Alban made no immediate reply to Lionel; but, seating himself more
comfortably in his chair--planting his feet still more at ease upon his
fender--the kindly Man of the World silently revolved all the possible
means by which Darrell might yet be softened and Lionel rendered happy.
His reflections dismayed him. "Was there ever such untoward luck," he
said at last, and peevishly, "that out of the whole world you should
fall in love with the very girl against whom Darrell's feelings
(prejudices if you please) must be mailed in adamant! Convinced, and
apparently with every reason, that she is not his daughter's child, but,
however innocently, an impostor, how can he receive her as his young
kinsman's bride? How can we expect it?"

"But," said Lionel, "if, on farther investigation, she prove to be his
daughter's child--the sole surviving representative of his line and
name?"

"His name! No! Of the name of Losely--the name of that turbulent
sharper, who may yet die on the gibbet--of that poor, dear, lovable
rascal Willy, who was goose enough to get himself transported for
robbery!--a felon's grandchild the representative of Darrell's line!
But how on earth came Lady Montfort to favour so wild a project, and
encourage you to share in it?--she who ought to have known Darrell
better?"

"Alas! she saw but