Chapter VII: The Black Sheep of Oakdene

O, ye wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious, and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebour's faults and folly.
Ye see your state with theirs compar'd,
And shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment's fair regard
What maks the mighty differ?

* * * * * * *

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way,
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee way.

_Address to the Unco Guid, or Rigidly Righteous_. BURNS.

"I may be wrong, Mr. Ward. I can't pretend to much wisdom. I'm an old, unlettered man, but it seems to me that folks are rather hard on the poor boy; but I may be wrong, I quite allow I may be wrong."

The speaker was a grey-haired, elderly man, with a thin, worn face, kind eyes, and rather bent shoulders. His companion, Mr. Ward, was the Squire of Oakdene, a short, broad, grey-whiskered country gentleman, somewhat bluff, but still good-natured enough in his way. The two were returning from a meeting of the church-wardens on an afternoon in January, and happening to see Donovan Farrant sauntering along the road in front of them, with his dog at his heels, they had begun to talk of him.

"I'm sure I wish to be hard on no one," said the squire, swinging his stick rather vigorously. "But you know, Hayes, the fellow has a very bad reputation. No one has a good word to say for him."

"Poor boy," said old Mr. Hayes, compassionately. "I suppose it's all true; but you know one must remember that he's never had a father to look after him."

"Yes, I know that," said the squire, reflectively; he had sons of his own, and had very strong ideas about paternal influence. "That's quite true, and may excuse him to a certain extent. But then it's impossible to take up with him. I couldn't have him mixing with Harry and Ned. It isn't that I wish to be uncivil to the boy, but really it would be most unwise. I don't know what Mrs. Ward would say if I proposed it. Now you, Hayes, it's different with you; you're a bachelor, and could easily be a little friendly with him."

"Yes," hesitated Mr. Hayes; "but you know I'm afraid he'd find me a very dull companion. I'm only a stupid old man, and he is young, and very clever, they say."

"Bosh!" said the squire, contemptuously--"he ought to be proud to shake hands with you. You're a great deal too humble-minded, Hayes. I've no idea of being so deferential to the young generation. There's a great deal too little of the Fifth Commandment now-a-days; it wasn't so when I was a boy."

"I felt very sorry for them this Christmas," resumed Mr. Hayes, gently; "the Manor must have been a sad house; but it's very hard to know how to help people when you can't send them blankets, or coals, or Christmas dinners."

"And young Farrant is a precious deal too proud to be helped in any way," said Mr. Ward, with a laugh. "But, after all, I am sorry for the boy; it's a sad start in life to have lost one's good name. What's he after now, stooping down in the snow? We shall catch him up, and, if so, I must speak to him."

A miserable-looking cat, drenched with water, and with a tin pot tied to its tail, had been lying half dead by the roadside. Donovan, who was a great lover of animals, had of course hastened to the rescue; he had just released the poor terrified creature from its instrument of torture, and was holding it in his arms, rubbing its wet draggled fur, when, hearing steps, he glanced round, and found himself face to face with Mr. Ward and Mr. Hayes. The colour rushed to his cheeks; he had not time to assume the look of cold haughty indifference with which he usually confronted his neighbours. He looked so handsome and boyish, and so unlike a reprobate, that Mr. Ward felt his compassion rising and his scruples diminishing; besides, the conversation had rather softened him, and he held out his hand cordially.

"Well, Farrant, how are you? Mrs. Farrant is quite well, I hope? You know Mr. Hayes, don't you? Why, what's that?--a drowned cat?"

"Some brute of a boy has nearly killed it," said Donovan, indignation making him speak naturally. "I think it will come round, though, as soon as I can get it to a fire."

That an atheist should bestow his attention on a stray cat was very surprising to the squire. He began to like the fellow. After all, there was some good in him.

"Had any skating yet?" he asked, in his kindly voice.

"No; our pond is half overgrown with mares-tail; besides, it's too small to be worth anything."

"Oh! you must come over to our place," said the squire, with good-humour, which astonished Mr. Hayes. "Our young people have been on the small lake to-day, and I daresay the large one will bear to-morrow. You used to be rather a swell at skating, if I remember right."

"I am very fond of it," said Donovan, and his eyes danced.

"Then come over to-morrow, and whenever you like; it isn't often we get a frost like this."

"Thank you--I will be sure to come," said Donovan; and as they parted he lifted his eyes to the squire's with a long searching look, at once wistful and surprised; then, whistling to Waif, he walked away with the cat under his arm.

"Now what on earth did I do that for?" said the squire, as he and Mr. Hayes turned down the lane leading to the Hall gates. "I don't know what my wife will say, but really, Hayes, I don't dislike the boy; and how his face lighted up at the thought of the skating! He's not a bad fellow, after all."

Mr. Ward was quite right in surmising that his wife would be vexed when she heard of the invitation he had given; he tried hard to mention it casually when he got home, but there was an undisguisable anxiety in his voice as he observed,

"Oh! by-the-by, my dear, I met young Farrant just now, and asked him to come over for skating to-morrow."

Mrs. Ward looked up with as much annoyance as it was possible for a good, kind-hearted woman to show.

"You asked Donovan Farrant to come _here_?"

"Not to the house, my dear, only to skate on the lake. I really don't see how I could avoid it; he is a first-rate skater, and this is the only ice for miles round."

"But only the other day, Edward, you said you wouldn't have him about with the boys on any account. I really think you might be more careful. It will be beginning an intimacy, and then, with such near neighbours, we shall find it impossible to break it off. It is just the most dangerous time, too, with Harry back from Oxford, ready to make friends with anyone, and Ned fresh from school."

"My dear, surely they needn't become friends because they skate on the same lake; besides, I assure you young Farrant is not so bad as people make out."

"Well, Edward, he is not at all the kind of companion I like for the boys, and I've heard you say the same thing yourself. No one visits him, he reads with that Mr. Alleyne at Greyshot, a most unprincipled man, and you yourself heard that he attended Raeburn's lectures."

"I heard that he had been seen at one," said the squire, rather testily.

"And that is quite enough, I am sure, to prove him an unfit companion for our children," replied Mrs. Ward. "Only the other day, too, I met him at the library and heard him asking for books on Positivism; besides, no one invented the account of his school life, I suppose."

"Well, he's not likely to talk either of Raeburn or of Positivism on the ice, I should think," said Mr. Ward, with a smile. "Come, my dear, it is not like you to be inhospitable, let the poor fellow be here just this once."

"Of course he must come now you have asked him," said Mrs. Ward, with a sigh. "But I am vexed about it. I do think one should be careful with boys like Harry and Ned, and with three girls only just out. Donovan Farrant is so good-looking."

She sighed again. The squire laughed heartily.

"Now about the boys I don't feel so positive, I own, but you may set your mind quite at rest about the girls, for this dangerous young fellow whom you dread so much is a professed woman-hater. And you know, my dear, even the author of evil is not so black as he's painted."

Mrs. Ward sighed, but she said no more, only secretly in her heart she hoped the frost would not continue.

Donovan was on the ice before anyone else the next morning, and for some time had the lake to himself. By-and-by two or three carriages drove up with people from the neighbourhood whom he knew slightly, and towards the middle of the day the squire and his two sons came down, but, beyond an ordinary greeting, very little passed between them. The squire was too good-natured a man not to feel glad that, in spite of his wife's scruples, he had invited the objectionable neighbour to come; his intense enjoyment and his first-rate skating were pleasant to watch, too. Mr. Ward really felt sorry when, early in the afternoon, he saw him taking off his skates."

"You are leaving very soon," he said, kindly. "I hope it is not on account of luncheon. Won't you come up to the house and have something?"

The invitation slipped out naturally, the squire found it hard not to be hospitable. But luckily Donovan declined. He never left Dot now for a whole day, and, giving the ordinary excuse of "an engagement," he left the lake, the squire of course inviting him to come again the next day, and as long as the frost lasted.

Mrs. Ward was much relieved when, on coming down from the house with her daughters and her niece, she found that the object of her alarms was really gone. Everyone was singing his praises--that was a little annoying, certainly--but she learnt from her husband that he had been far too much taken up with his figure-cutting to trouble the boys with his company, and with that she was satisfied, and dismissed the subject from her thoughts.

The next day, however, was not nearly so propitious. To begin with, the girls would go on the ice in the morning, and, though Mrs. Ward hurried over her housekeeping and followed them as quickly as possible, she found that already the intimacy which she so much dreaded had begun. The first sight that met her eyes as she emerged from the shrubbery was a little knot of people gathered together on the bank. Her husband leaning on his stick and talking jocosely, her younger daughter, and her niece, Maggie White, just preparing for their first start, and Donovan Farrant kneeling in the snow, putting on her elder daughter's skates. It was very provoking! Why had not the girls been more careful? Why had she not sent down the servant to help them? Why did her husband stand there so carelessly, laughing and talking? Her greeting to Donovan was stiff and chill, but he was much too happy to care, the day was gloriously fine, the frosty air invigorating, Mr. Ward and his daughters had been kind and friendly, Maggie White was bewitching, for once in his life Donovan was perfectly and healthily happy. He had been on the ice for some time, his usually pale, dark face was all aglow with the exercise, and his eyes were sparkling with excitement, he certainly looked most provokingly handsome, and perhaps there was some cause for Mrs. Ward's anxiety,

"How could you let him help the girls like that?" she said, reproachfully, as the skaters glided swiftly away. "I thought, Edward, you told me he was a regular misanthrope."

"Well, I don't see that he has done much harm, my dear,"' said the squire. "Common courtesy would require him to help the ladies, and I'm glad to see him lose that cold proud look; he was more of a boy to-day."

"I have warned the girls to be careful, but there's no knowing what Maggie will do. She's a dreadful little flirt!" and Mrs. Ward looked anxiously across the lake to the place where Donovan was giving her niece a lesson in the figure eight.

"Well," said the squire, consolingly, "Maggie's a very nice girl, at any rate, and if she is, as you say, a flirt, then you may be pretty sure that she won't get her heart broken. Ah! here come the Fortescues. We have quite a nice number here to-day;" and the hospitable old gentleman hastened forward to receive his friends.

"You are the only good skater here," said Maggie, looking up admiringly at her instructor. "Where did you learn? And how can you manage to do all those wonderful figures?"

"They are only learnt by practice," said Donovan. "I learnt at school, and at my old home near London. You can do anything well, if you give your whole will to it."

"Can you?" said Maggie. "I can't. I expect I've had as many weeks of skating as you have had days. I come from Canada, you know; but I shall never be able to do these figures as you do."

It was pleasant to be made much of and flattered; an entirely new experience to Donovan. He thought Maggie White the prettiest and pleasantest girl he had ever seen. They talked on naturally and easily, and it was not surprising perhaps that Donovan was in no hurry to part with his new companion, or that he enjoyed skating rapidly up and down the lake hand in hand with her more than cutting figures by himself. Nor did it occur to Maggie that she was guilty of any great enormity in enjoying herself too. Once she said, in her pretty way,

"I am keeping you from doing what you like, please go away and leave me. I am taking up all your time, and spoiling your skating."

And Donovan, though he was no "lady's man," could answer very truthfully,

"You are making me enjoy it perfectly."

Then they began to talk again of Canada, and she described all its delights to him.

"Such fun we used to have in the skating season. Sometimes we had regular balls on the ice. It was so delightful! Oh! Mr. Farrant"--as a sudden thought struck her--"could we dance now? I'm sure you, who skate so beautifully, would waltz to perfection."

It was very innocently proposed. In a minute Maggie had proclaimed the news to her cousins as they passed.

"We are going to dance. Why don't you?" And then in a minute the deed was done, and Mrs. Ward saw with dismay that Donovan Farrant and her niece were actually dancing together.

Ice-waltzing was a novelty at Oakdene, and everyone turned to watch the graceful movements of the little Canadian girl and her partner. Twice they made the circuit of the lake, then, as they passed near the bank where Mrs. Ward and one of her daughters were standing, Donovan overheard the words:

"I must stop this. With Donovan Farrant, too. The last person in the world----"

Maggie felt a quick movement in the arm that was round her waist, and suddenly her partner stopped, saying, in an odd changed voice,

"I think Mrs. Ward wishes to speak to you."

"To me? All right, auntie, I'm coming. I won't be a minute, Mr. Farrant."

She skated swiftly to the bank, and listened, with downcast eyes, to her aunt's words.

"My dear, I don't quite approve of this. I'm sorry to interrupt your pleasure, but you must allow me to judge in this instance." Then, as Donovan drew near, she turned to him, trying to convey her meaning as civilly as she could. "I have been telling my niece that I think perhaps ice-dancing is a little out of place here. You will understand, I am sure, Mr. Farrant."

Yes, he understood perfectly. The face which had so lately been boyishly happy and bright was suddenly overcast, the eyes saddened, the mouth re-assumed its bitter look, and, without a single word, Donovan raised his hat, turned away, and skated rapidly to the other end of the lake.

The brightness of the day was gone for him after that. He went on skating, but with no animation. Once young Ned Ward came up and asked him to do the figure of double eight, with which he had been astonishing the quiet Oakdene skaters early in the morning, but be complied so moodily that the boy soon left him to seek more genial companions. Then Donovan resolved to go home. He had been repulsed, and, just as it was in his home life, so too, in this instance, one repulse was enough. He had neither enough love nor enough humility to lay himself open again to the chance of a fresh rebuff. After the first, he invariably shrank into himself, becoming a little harder, and colder, and more severe in manner.

He skated to a deserted corner of the lake, climbed the bank, and took off his skates; then involuntarily he looked back on the animated scene with a sore-hearted regret. The sun was already getting low, though it was not three o'clock; its level rays cast a red glow over the wide white expanse, dotted here and there by the dark gliding figures of the skaters. The shore was fringed with tall trees, their black stems serving as a relief to the general whiteness, and their branches drooping gracefully under the heavy yet feathery-looking rime. There was an intense stillness in the sharp frosty air, the voices of the merry crowd rang out clearly; once Donovan felt sure he heard Maggie White's girlish laugh, and it grated on him. But in another minute all his morbid and selfish thoughts were suddenly scattered to the winds, for while he was still looking across the lake he saw the ice in the centre bend, then, with one vast booming crack, it parted asunder. In an instant all was confusion. Donovan sprang from the bank, and ran at full speed to the scene of the disaster, all petty and personal feelings driven out by the absorbing general interest and alarm. Several people were in the water, struggling, sinking, rising, vainly clutching at the slippery edges of the broken ice. Those who were safe bent forward helplessly on their skates, trying to reach a hand to their friends in distress, or calling loudly for help, for ropes, for every sort of aid which was not at hand. Two ladies were submerged; Donovan coolly selected one of them while he drew off his coat, then, without an instant's hesitation, he plunged into the icy water. His example was speedily followed by Harry Ward, ropes were hastily brought on to the ice, the rescue began to seem hopeful. Donovan was an expert swimmer; a few strokes brought him up to the sinking girl, who, dragged down by the weight of her skates, was being drawn in under the ice. From this he freed her without much difficulty, but she was insensible, and he found that to get her out of the water was quite another matter; he tried several times, but without success; each time the edges of the ice broke away with the weight, and all he could do was to keep her head above water, while with increasing difficulty he struck out with his free arm. The others had been rescued, or were being helped, and at length a rope was brought to his aid, a noose was thrown round him and his burden, and, after a short fierce struggle, he found himself safely on the ice.

With a masculine dislike of being helped, he sprang quickly to his feet, left his insensible burden to the care of other hands, and looked round for his coat. Perhaps those who had seen him helped out with the rope did not know he was a rescuer--perhaps, in the excitement and hurry of the moment, he was overlooked; at any rate, no one spoke to him, and all at once his sore morose feeling returned with double force. The people were beginning to leave the ice quickly, the girl whom Donovan had rescued began to revive and was carried up to the house; he turned away in the opposite direction, picked up his skates from the bank where he had left them, and strode fiercely away in the direction of the Manor. He had done his best; one word of praise, or even of recognition, would have sent him home happy, but by some odd chance, even when he deserved commendation, he failed to get it. Probably he would have disliked being thanked above all things, and yet the absence of gratitude irritated him; it was unjust, no one ever gave him his due, the world was full of injustice. Over and over in his mind went the weary, bitter, discontented cry; perhaps his outward condition affected him a little, adding fuel to the flame, for, although he considered himself too philosophic to be troubled by mere bodily inconveniences, the truth was that he felt them more than most men, though he had great powers of endurance. The icy cold bath which he had just had, and the discomfort of his cold, clinging, dripping clothes, at any rate served to remind him continually of his grievance, just as the wound he had received in the school gauntleting had reminded him for days of that injustice. He had scarcely passed the Hall gates, when he was roused from his dismal thoughts by an unexpected greeting.

"Nice bright afternoon," said old Mr. Hayes, shaking his hand. "Have you been on the ice? Ah, yes, I see you have your skates."

"Yes; there's been an accident," said Donovan, "so I am going home. The ice on the large lake gave way."

"Bless me!--no one hurt, I hope? Did anyone go in? Why, now I notice you are all wet. Dear, dear! what a terrible thing! How many people fell in?"

"I should think about half a dozen," replied Donovan, swinging his skates and trying to look unconcerned.

"And all were rescued? that's a comfort. And you were helped out quickly, I hope?"

"Oh! yes," said Donovan, too proud to explain, "I was hauled out."

"Poor fellow! but what a shock it must have been! You'll be taking a chill. You must come in with me and have something hot, yes, indeed you must, I'll take no denial. Here we are, you see, at my door. Come in quickly and have something, and then walk home briskly and change. Now what shall it be, whisky-punch or negus! I'm an abstemious man generally, but this is the real time for such things, wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, dear, dear! Now come in, come in."

Mr. Hayes had not been disabused of the old ideas about alcohol, but, whether he was right or wrong, Donovan's brow gradually relaxed under the influence of the old man's kindness and hospitality; he followed him obediently into the little villa, which, though only inhabited by the bachelor Mr. Hayes, was as scrupulously neat as any old maid's dwelling.

Mr. Hayes rang the bell in the little parlour, all the time making much of his guest. Could he not accommodate him with a change of clothes? Should he send up to the Manor, &c.

A grave staid housekeeper appeared to answer the bell, and Mr. Hayes perhaps thought it would be well to quicken her movements by telling her the news of the village.

"Some hot water and a lemon and some sugar, please, Mrs. Brown. There has been an accident on the ice in the Hall grounds, and this gentleman has been in the water and is very wet."

Then the old man went to the cellaret, and, the housekeeper having returned with the other ingredients, he began with infinite pleasure and fussiness to make the punch. He would not let Donovan stay for long, but as soon as he had done justice to the steaming beverage, started him on his walk home, with paternal injunctions not to stay about in his wet things, and to be sure to come in again soon and cheer up a solitary old bachelor.

Donovan smiled to himself at the last speech. Was it not rather the "solitary old bachelor;" who had cheered him? The kindness and hospitality drove away for the time his gloomy thoughts, but they returned to him as he entered his own home and threw down his skates.

"Good-bye to you, at any rate," he murmured. "I shall never go there again."

Dot, with her quick all-observing eyes, saw at once that something was wrong when Donovan came into her room. Yesterday he had returned in the highest spirits, that very morning he had started with the look of bright expectation on his face which the little sister liked to see, but; now he was grave and sad, with the expression which he always wore when any allusion was made to his school disgrace--the expression which Dot never cared to put into words--a hard, bad look.

"You are back earlier than you said," she began. "Have you not had good skating?"

"Yes--no," he moved away from her to the fireplace, and kicked the coals in the grate with his heel.

"He never stirs the fire with his foot except when something is wrong," soliloquized Dot; then aloud,

"Have you seen mamma, Dono?"

"No."

It could not be any quarrel, then, in that quarter. What could have happened? He was so disinclined to talk, however, that she did not venture to ask any more questions, and in a minute or two he walked across the room, opened the piano, and began to practise. He had chosen something of Sebastian Bach's, and laboured away at it, at first mechanically and doggedly enough, but by degrees with immense satisfaction and relief to himself. A stately, measured, dignified strain it was, with one little fidgety, fugue-like passage; he played five bars of it over and over till the disappointment, and anger, and moodiness gradually died out of his heart, and poor Dot began to beg for mercy.

"You must have played it a thousand times," she said, laughing, and Donovan laughed too, left the piano, and came to sit beside her.

"Bach is as good as a tonic," he said, cheerfully. "That old fellow always sets me right,"

She saw now that she might talk to him, and began to question him about his day. He always told her his troubles, but this afternoon he tried to make light of them.

"We had a glorious time in the morning, the ice was perfect. About the middle of the time the Miss Wards came down, and their cousin, Miss White, a very pretty girl from Canada. She skated nicely, was much more up to things than anyone else, and for a little while we danced together. Mrs. Ward did not approve of that, though. I overheard her say something not too complimentary, and then she managed somehow to stop it, at which, you know, Dot, I was just a little cross. But, just as I was coming away, guess what happened."

"An accident! Oh! was it an accident?" cried Dot, excitedly. "And you were brave and helped the others, and Mrs. Ward was obliged to like you very much?"

He laughed a little, but rather sadly.

"No, Dot. You are running on too fast. I was born under an unlucky star, and shall never be able to win honour or respect."

He gave her a detailed account of the whole affair, and was rewarded by her delighted pride in his attempted rescue.

"Dono dear, you ought to have a medal for it, a medal, you know, from the Society for Promoting--what is it?"

"Cruelty to animals," suggested Donovan, wickedly.

"No, no, you bad boy. Something about being 'humane' and they give medals to people who save people's lives. Just fancy, Dono, you could wear it on your watch-chain. It would be so nice."

"Too nice for the like of me," he said, lightly, but with a stifled sigh. "They keep things of that sort for the good boys."

"And no one even thanked you? That was a shame," said the little sister, indignantly. "Never mind, Dono, you are my hero, my very own, and you're the dearest old boy in the world."

Perhaps it was as well that the frost only lasted three days longer. The skaters grumbled sadly, but two people at Oakdene were considerably relieved. The one was Mrs. Ward, who rejoiced that "that dangerous young man" could not again imperil her children, the other was the "dangerous young man" himself. But if Donovan did not easily forget injustice, neither did he forget even the most trifling piece of kindness. After his next day's shooting, he left a brace of pheasants at old Mr. Hayes' door, and this made an opening for a further acquaintance. Mr. Hayes wrote to ask him to dinner, and, as such invitations were rare, Donovan was pleased enough to go. It was a _tête-à-tête_ dinner. Old Mr. Hayes was past sixty, and Donovan not yet nineteen, but, in spite of this disparity in age, the evening was a very pleasant one, and did him good. It was a fresh interest, an insight into a new home, and also into a life whose simplicity, kindliness, and content could not fail to strike the most casual observer.

Mr. Hayes lived very frugally as a rule. The game was an unwonted luxury, and his evident appreciation of it was very pleasant to Donovan. He himself had a hearty but philosophic appetite, to which nothing came amiss, dainty discrimination was not at all in his line, but he enjoyed watching old Mr. Hayes discuss his present, glad that what had been pleasure to him in the shooting should be real pleasure to some one else in the eating.

"You are like Squire Thornhill in 'The Vicar of Wakefield,'" said Mr. Hayes, when the house-keeper had removed the game, "who brought his own venison with him when he dined at the vicarage. What! You don't know the book? Is it possible? Well, I suppose it's old and behind the times now; but, my word! how I have laughed over it, and cried, too, for the matter of that. 'Moses at the Fair,' and then 'Olivia!' Ah! he was a grand fellow, old Goldsmith. There are no such writers now-a-days."

Then by-and-by some question of Donovan's drew out an account of Mr. Hayes' former life, the rough discipline of the old boarding-schools, the early drudgery in a merchant's office, his gradual advance till he had become a partner in the firm, the losses they had had in the time of the Crimean War, finally his ill-health, and his retirement, with a modest income, to the little country villa. A life of toil, and care, and hardship, with what seemed a very slight reward to Donovan, but which the old man himself evidently considered quite sufficient.

"And now, you see," he concluded, "when my health is uncertain, and I can't do what I once could, why, here I have a cosy little berth to myself, with no cares or anxieties. It was always my castle in the air, this, a little house in a country village, with a bit of garden, and a place to keep fowls in. The thought of this helped me through years of care and labour. Always remember to have your castle in the air. That's my advice to you."

"What is the use, sir, if it never comes to anything? Except at cards, the luck is against me always. And is there not a proverb, 'Blessed is he that expecteth nothing'?"

"Well, well," said Mr. Hayes, "perhaps you're the wiser and more rational. I don't know exactly about _expecting_--you must expect very patiently, at any rate. But a 'castle' is a great blessing; I should miss mine sadly."

"You have a new one, then?" said Donovan, amused.

"Oh, yes; since I came here, I have fixed upon a visit to Switzerland as my 'castle.' I've been saving up for it this long time, and I've mapped out my route, and chosen what hotels to go to, and calculated just what it will cost; and then, you know, when I meet with travellers, I get hints from them, and put them down in my note-book. Now this is what I intend to do, starting, you know, from Newhaven to Dieppe," &c., &c.

The whole tour was detailed with enthusiastic delight, and Donovan listened, unable to help admiring the child-like, contented old man.

"And when do you think your 'castle' will come off, sir?" he asked, when the whole plan had been related.

"Oh! that I can't tell at all," said Mr. Hayes, rubbing his hands. "I have not saved enough yet; but won't it be a _grand_ tour! Come, own that it's a 'castle' worth having."