he
lattice he looked forth on the old hereditary trees--on the Gothic
church-tower--on the dark evergreens that belted his father's tomb.
Again he sighed, but this time the sigh had a haughty sound in its
abrupt impatience; and George felt that words written must remain to
strengthen and confirm the effect of words spoken. He had at least
obeyed his uncle's wise injunction--he had prepared Darrell's mind to
weigh the contents of a letter, which, given in the first instance,
would perhaps have rendered Darrell's resolution not less stubborn, by
increasing the pain to himself which the resolution already inflicted.

Darrell turned and looked towards George, as if in surprise to see him
still lingering there.

"I have now but to place before you this letter from my uncle to myself;
it enters into those details which it would have ill become me specially
to discuss. Remember, I entreat you, in reading it, that it is written
by your oldest friend--by a man who has no dull discrimination in the
perplexities of life or the niceties of honour."

Darrell bowed his head in assent, and took the letter. George was about
to leave the room.

"Stay," said Darrell, "'tis best to have but one interview--one
conversation on the subject which has been just enforced on me; and
the letter may need a comment or a message to your uncle." He stood
hesitating, with the letter open in his hand; and, fixing his keen eye
on George's pale and powerful countenance, said: "How is it that, with
an experience of mankind which you will pardon me for assuming to be
limited, you yet read so wondrously the complicated human heart?"

"If I really have that gift," said George, "I will answer your question
by another: Is it through experience that we learn to read the human
heart--or is it through sympathy? If it be experience, what becomes of
the Poet? If the Poet be born, not made, is it not because he is born to
sympathise with what he has never experienced?"

"I see! There are born Preachers!"

Darrell reseated himself, and began Alban's letter. He was evidently
moved by the Colonel's account of Lionel's grief, muttering to himself,
"Poor boy!--but he is brave--he is young." When he came to Alban's
forebodings on the effects of dejection upon the stamina of life, he
pressed his hand quickly against his breast as if he had received a
shock! He mused a while before he resumed his task; then he read rapidly
and silently till his face flushed, and he