he honour that, I hear, you
have been to your native town. A very distinguished person, our friend
Tom tells me; and we ought to be proud of you, and behave to you as you
deserve, for I am sure we don't send too many clever fellows out of
Whitbury."

"Would that you had never sent me!" said Elsley in his bitter way.

"Ah, sir, that's matter of opinion! You would never have been heard of
down here, never have had justice done you, I mean; for heard of you
have been. There's my daughter has read your poems again and again--
always quoting them; and very pretty they sound too. Poetry is not in my
line, of course; still, it's a credit to a man to do anything well, if
he has the gift; and she tells me that you have it, and plenty of it.
And though she's no fine lady, thank Heaven, I'll back her for good
sense against any woman. Come up, sir, and judge for yourself if I don't
speak the truth; she will be delighted to meet you, and bade me say so."

By this time good Mark had talked himself out of breath; and Elsley
flushing up, as of old, at a little praise, began to stammer an excuse.
"His nerves were so weak, and his spirits so broken with late troubles."

"My dear sir, that's the very reason I want you to come. A bottle of
port will cure the nerves, and a pleasant chat the spirits. Nothing like
forgetting all for a little time; and then to it again with a fresh
lease of strength, and beat it at last like a man."

"Too late, my dear sir; I must pay the penalty of my own folly," said
Elsley, really won by the man's cordiality.

"Never too late, sir, while there's life left in us. And," he went on in
a gentler tone, "if we all were to pay for our own follies, or lie down
and die when we saw them coming full cry at our heels, where would any
one of us be by now? I have been a fool in my time, young gentleman,
more than once or twice; and that too when I was old enough to be your
father: and down I went, and deserved what I got: but my rule always
was--Fight fair; fall soft; know when you've got enough; and don't cry
out when you've got it: but just go home; train again; and say--better
luck next fight." And so old Mark's sermon ended (as most of them did)
in somewhat Socratic allegory, savouring rather of the market than of
the study; but Elsley understood him, and looked up with a smile.

"You too are somewhat of a poet in your way, I see, sir!"

"I never thought to live to hear that, sir. I can't doubt now that you
a