"I'm glad of that; that's the best news
you could give me. Do they think well of
me? Do they think I do my work well,
and——"

"Good Lord, what a swallow the lad
has for flummery!" grumbled old Byrne.
"He'd like me to repeat every word of
praise to him. It's wonderful to see how
he glows under it—no, not wonderful, when
one recollects how young he is. Ah, youth,
youth! Do they? Yes, of course they
do; you know that well enough. It's
deuced lucky you gave up that notion of
going to Berlin, Walter, boy."

"Yes," said Joyce, with a sigh, as he
remembered all about the proposal; "I'm
better here."

"Better here, I should think you were,
indeed! A correspondent can't do much in
the way of making his mark. He can be
serious and well-informed, or chatty and
nonsensical; he can elect between
describing the councils of cabinets or the
circumference of crinolines; but in either
case his scope is limited, and he can never
get much fame for himself. Now in your
present position as an essayist and leader-
writer of remarkable ability—oh, you
needn't pretend to blush, you know I
shouldn't say what I didn't think—there is
possibly a very bright future in store for
you! And to think that years ago you
possessed a distaste for politics!"

"It does seem ridiculous," said Walter,
smiling. "I am always amused when I
remember my very wilful ignorance on
such matters. However, the credit of the
conversion, if credit there be, is entirely
owing to you and O'Connor."

"Not entirely, I'm thinking," said the
old man. "I recollect your telling me of
a conversation you had with Lady Caroline
Mansergh, in which certain hopes were
expressed and certain suggestions made,
which, I should say, had their effect in
influencing your conduct. Am I right,
Walter?" And Mr. Byrne looked hard
and keenly from under his bushy eyebrows
at his young friend.

"Perfectly right!" said Walter, meeting
his glance. "I think that the
remembrance of Lady Caroline's advice, and the
knowledge that she thought I had within
me the power of distinguishing myself,
were the first inducements to me to shake
off that horrible lethargic state into which
I had fallen!"

"Well, we must take care that you fulfil
all her ladyship's expectations, Walter!
What you are doing now must merely be a
stepping-stone to something much better.
I don't intend to die until I have seen you
a leader in the people's cause, my boy!
Oh, yes, I allow you're soundly with them
now, and fight their battles well and
effectively with the pen; but I want to
live to see you in Parliament, to hear you
riddling the plutocrats with your banter,
and overwhelming the aristocrats with your
scorn!"

"My dear old friend, I fear you pitch
the note a little too high," said Joyce, with
a laugh. "I don't think you will ever see
me among the senators."

"And why not?" asked old Byrne, in a
very excited manner—"and why not, pray?
Is there any one speaks better at the Club?
Is there any one more popular among the
leaders of the cause, or with them? If those
miserable Tories had not swallowed the
leek fifty times in succession, as they have
just done, and thereby succeeded in clinging
to office for yet a few months, the chiefs
of the party, or at least of one section of it
—the 'ultras,' as they are good enough to
call us—would have relied greatly on your
advice and assistance, and when the election
comes, as come it must within a very short
time, you will see how you will be in
requisition. And about your position, Walter? I
think we should look to that at once. I think
you should lose no time in entering yourself
at some Inn of Court, and commence
reading for the bar!"

"Don't ask me to make any change in
my life at present, old friend!" said Walter.
"No!" as he saw the old man with an
impatient gesture about to speak—"no, I was
not going to plead the want of the money;
for, in the first place, I know you would
lend it to me, and in the second I am
myself making, as you know, an excellent
income. But I don't want to undertake
anything more just now than what I am
actually engaged in. I am quite sufficiently
occupied—and I am very happy."

Old Byrne was compelled to be satisfied
with this declaration, but he grumbled out
that it should only be temporary, and that
he intended to see Walter in a very
different position before he died.

Walter Joyce said nothing more than
the truth when he said that he was very
happy. He had fallen into exactly the
kind of life which suited him, the pursuance
of a congenial occupation amongst
companions of similar tastes. There are, I
take it, but few of us professional plyers
of the pen who do not look back with
regret and with something akin to wonder