gentlemanlike, interesting lad—but he was also
reported to be rather slow at acquiring the
rudiments of engineering science. Other letters,
later in date, described him as a little too ready
to despond about himself; as having been sent
away, on that account, to some new railway
works, to see if change of scene would rouse
him; and as having benefited in every respect
by the experiment—except, perhaps, in regard to
his professional studies, which still advanced but
slowly. Subsequent communications announced
his departure, under care of a trustworthy foreman,
for some public works in Belgium; touched
on the general benefit he appeared to derive
from this new change; praised his excellent
manners and address, which were of great assistance
in facilitating business communications
with the foreigners—and passed over in ominous
silence the main question of his actual progress
in the acquirement of knowledge. These
reports, and many others which resembled them,
were all conscientiously presented by Frank's
friend to the attention of Frank's father. On
each occasion, Mr. Clare exulted over Mr.
Vanstone; and Mr. Vanstone quarrelled with Mr.
Clare. "One of these days, you'll wish you
hadn't laid that wager," said the cynic philosopher.
"One of these days, I shall have the
blessed satisfaction of pocketing your guinea,"
cried the sanguine friend. Two years had then
passed since Frank's departure. In one year
more, results asserted themselves, and settled
the question.

Two days after Mr. Vanstone's return from
London, he was called away from the breakfast-
table before he had found time enough to look
over his letters, delivered by the morning's post.
Thrusting them into one of the pockets of his
shooting-jacket, he took the letters out again,
at one grasp, to read them when occasion served,
later in the day. The grasp included the whole
correspondence, with one exception—that
exception being a final report from the civil
engineer, which notified the termination of the
connexion between his pupil and himself, and
the immediate return of Frank to his father's
house.

While this important announcement lay
unsuspected in Mr. Vanstone's pocket, the object
of it was travelling home, as fast as railways
could take him. At half-past ten at night, while
Mr. Clare was sitting in studious solitude over
his books and his green tea, with his favourite
black cat to keep him company, he heard
footsteps in the passage—the door opened—and
Frank stood before him.

Ordinary men would have been astonished.
But the philosopher's composure was not to
be shaken by any such trifle as the unexpected
return of his eldest son. He could not have
looked up more calmly from his learned volume,
if Frank had been absent for three minutes
instead of three years.

"Exactly what I predicted," said Mr. Clare.
"Don't interrupt me by making explanations;
and don't frighten the cat. If there is anything
to eat in the kitchen, get it and go to bed. You
can walk over to Combe-Raven to-morrow, and
give this message from me to Mr. Vanstone:—
'Father's compliments, sir, and I have come
back on your hands like a bad shilling, as he
always said I should. He keeps his own guinea,
and takes your five; and he hopes you'll mind
what he says to you another time.' That is the
message. Shut the door after you. Good
night."

Under these unfavourable auspices, Mr. Francis
Clare made his appearance the next morning
in the grounds at Combe-Raven; and, something
doubtful of the reception that might await him,
slowly approached the precincts of the house.

It was not wonderful that Magdalen should
have failed to recognise him when he first
appeared in view. He had gone away a backward
lad of seventeen; he returned a young man of
twenty. His slim figure had now acquired
strength and grace, and had increased in stature
to the medium height. The small regular
features, which he was supposed to have inherited
from his mother, were rounded and filled out,
without having lost their remarkable delicacy of
form. His beard was still in its infancy; and
nascent lines of whisker traced their modest way
sparely down his cheeks. His gentle wandering
brown eyes would have looked to better advantage
in a woman's face—they wanted spirit and
firmness to fit them for the face of a man. His hands
had the same wandering habit as his eyes; they
were constantly changing from one position to
another, constantly twisting and turning any
little stray thing they could pick up. He was
undeniably handsome, graceful, well-bred—but
no close observer could look at him, without
suspecting that the stout old family stock had
begun to wear out in the later generations, and
that Mr. Francis Clare had more in him of the
shadow of his ancestors than of the substance.

When the astonishment caused by his appearance
had partially subsided, a search was instituted
for the missing report. It was found in
the remotest recesses of Mr. Vanstone's
capacious pocket, and was read by that gentleman
on the spot.

The plain facts, as stated by the engineer,
were briefly these. Frank was not possessed of
the necessary abilities to fit him for his new
calling; and it was useless to waste time, by
keeping him any longer in an employment for
which he had no vocation. This, after three years'
trial, being the conviction on both sides, the
master had thought it the most straightforward
course for the pupil to go home, and candidly
place results before his father and his friends. In
some other pursuit, for which he was more fit,
and in which he could feel an interest, he would
no doubt display the industry and perseverance
which he had been too much discouraged to
practise in the profession that he had now
abandoned. Personally, he was liked by all who
knew him; and his future prosperity was
heartily desired by the many friends whom he
had made in the north. Such was the substance
of the report, and so it came to an end.

Many men would have thought the engineer's