are fond of
reading."

"I think so, but I am not sure," answered Lionel, whom his cousin's
conciliatory words had restored to ease and good-humour.

"You mean, perhaps, that you like reading, if you may choose your own
books."

"Or rather, if I may choose my own time to read them, and that would not
be on bright summer days."

"Without sacrificing bright summer days, one finds one has made little
progress when the long winter nights come."

"Yes, sir. But must the sacrifice be paid in books? I fancy I learned as
much in the play-ground as I did n the schoolroom, and for the last few
months, in much my own master, reading hard in the forenoon, it is true,
for many hours at a stretch, and yet again for a few hours at evening,
but rambling also through the streets, or listening to a few friends
whom I have contrived to make,--I think, if I can boast of any progress
at all, the books have the smaller share in it."

"You would, then, prefer an active life to a studious one?"

"Oh, yes--yes."

"Dinner is served," said the decorous Mr. Mills, throwing open the door.

CHAPTER III.

In our happy country every man's house is his castle. But however
stoutly he fortify it, Care enters, as surely as she did in Horace's
time, through the porticos of a Roman's villa. Nor, whether
ceilings be fretted with gold and ivory, or whether only coloured
with whitewash, does it matter to Care any more than it does to a
house-fly. But every tree, be it cedar or blackthorn, can harbour
its singing-bird; and few are the homes in which, from nooks least
suspected, there starts not a music. Is it quite true that, "non
avium citharaeque cantus somnum reducent"? Would not even Damocles
himself have forgotten the sword, if the lute-player had chanced on
the notes that lull?

The dinner was simple enough, but well dressed and well served. One
footman, in plain livery, assisted Mr. Mills. Darrell ate sparingly, and
drank only water, which was placed by his side iced, with a single glass
of wine at the close of the repast, which he drank on bending his head
to Lionel, with a certain knightly grace, and the prefatory words of
"Welcome here to a Haughton." Mr. Fairthorn was less abstemious; tasted
of every dish, after examining it long through a pair of tortoise-shell
spectacles, and drank leisurely through a bottle of port, holding up
every glass to the light. Darrell talked with his usual cold but not