plainly there was something on his mind, and I
half dreaded lest he might have discovered his
sister's secret, and have disapproved of my
share in it.

"Algy," said he, calling me by my Christian
name, which he very rarely did, "I have
something to say to you. Can I be quite certain
that you'll take my frankness in good part?"

"You can," I said, with a great effort to seem
calm and assured.

"You give me your word upon it?"

"I do," said I, trying to appear bold; "and
my hand be witness of it."

"Well," he resumed, drawing a long breath,
"here it is: I have remarked that for above a
week back you have never waited for the post-
boy's return to the cottage, but always have
come down to the village yourself."

I nodded assent, but said nothing.

"I have remarked, besides," said he, "that,
when told at the office there was no letter for
you, you came away sad-looking and fretted,
scarcely spoke for some time, and seemed
altogether downcast and depressed."

"I don't deny it," I said, calmly.

"Well," continued he, "some old experiences
of mine have taught me that this sort of anxiety
has generally but one source, with fellows of
our age, and which simply means that the
remittance we have counted upon as certain, has
been, from some cause or other, delayed. Isn't
that the truth?"

"No," said I, joyfully, for I was greatly
relieved by his words; "no, on my honour,
nothing of the kind."

"I may not have hit the thing exactly," said
he, hurriedly, "but I'll be sworn it is a money
matter, and if a couple of hundred pounds be
of the least service——"

"My dear, kind-hearted fellow," I broke in,
"I can't endure this longer; it is no question
of money; it is nothing that affects my means,
though I half wish it were, to show you how
cheerfully I could owe you my escape from a
difficulty—not, indeed, that I need another tie
to bind me to you——" But I could say no
more, for my eyes were swimming over, and my
lips trembling.

"Then," cried he, "I have only to ask pardon
for thus obtruding upon your confidence."

I was too full of emotion to do more than
squeeze his hand affectionately, and thus we
walked along, side by side, neither uttering a
word. At last, and as it were with an effort,
by a bold transition to carry our thoughts into
another and very different channel, he said,
"Here's a letter from old Dyke, our landlord.
The worthy father has been enjoying himself in
a tour of English watering-places, and has now
started for a few weeks up the Rhine. His
account of his holiday, as he calls it, is amusing;
nor less so is the financial accident to which he
owes the excursion. Take it, and read it," he
added, giving me the epistle. "If the style be the
man, his reverence Is not difficult to decipher."

I bestowed little attention on this speech,
uttered, as I perceived, rather from the impulse
of starting a new topic than anything else, and
taking the letter half mechanically, I thrust it
in my pocket. One or two efforts we made at
conversation were equally failures, and it was a
relief to me when Crofton, suddenly remembering
some night-lines he had laid in a mountain
lake a few miles off, hastily shook my hand, and
said, "Good-by till dinner-time."

When I reached the cottage, instead of
entering, I strolled into the garden, and sought
out a little summer-house of sweetbriar and
honeysuckle, on the edge of the river. Some
strange, vague impression was on me that I
needed time and place to commune with myself
and be alone; that a large unsettled account lay
between me and my conscience, which could not be
longer deferred; but, of what nature, how
originating, and how tending, I know nothing
whatever.

I resolved to submit myself to a searching
examination, to ascertain what I might about
myself. In my favourite German authors I
had frequently read that men's failures in life
were chiefly owing to neglect of this habit of self-
investigation; that though we calculate well the
dangers and difficulties of an enterprise, we
omit the more important estimate of what may
be our own capacity to effect an object, what
are our resources, wherein our deficiencies.

"Now for it," I thought, as I entered the
little arbour—"now for it, Potts; kiss the
book, and tell the whole truth and nothing but
the truth."

As I said this, I took off my hat and bowed
respectfully around to the members of an
imaginary court. "My name," said I, in a clear
and respectful voice, "is Algernon Sydney
Potts. If I be pushed to the avowal, I am
sorry it is Potts! Algernon Sydney do a deal,
but they can't do everything—not to say that
captious folk see a certain bathos in the
collocation with my surname. Can a man hope to
make such a name illustrious? Can he aspire to
the notion of a time when people will allude to
the great Potts, the celebrated Potts, the
immortal Potts?" I grew very red, I felt my
cheek on fire as I uttered this, and I suddenly
bethought me of Mr. Pitt, and I said aloud, "And,
if Pitt, why not Potts?" That was a most healing
recollection. I revelled in it for a long time.
"How true is it," I continued, "that the halo of
greatness illumines all within its circle, and the
man is merged in the grandeur of his achievements.
The men who start in life with high-
sounding designations have but to fulfil a foregone
pledge—to pay the bill that Fortune has
endorsed. Not so was our case, Pitt. To us is
it to lay every foundation-stone of our future
greatness. There was nothing in your surname
to foretel you would be a Minister of State at
one-and-thirty—there is no letter in mine to
indicate that I shall be. But what is it that I
am to be? Is it Poet, Philosopher, Politician,
Soldier, or Discoverer? Am I to be great in
Art, or illustrious in Letters? Is there to be an
ice tract of Behring's Straits called Potts's
Point, or a planet styled Pottsium Sidus? And