who are incapable of profound passion
generally seek to hide the shallowness of their
feelings by high-sounding theories of catholic
affection."

"I wanted to persuade you mother,—I
wanted to entreat you; but it seems I only
make you stronger in your own opinion. I
am going down to have my lesson, now;
perhaps I may not be home to dinner."

Lady Irwin said nothing. Edward
lingered at the door, probably in expectation of
a conciliatory word or look; then, with a
heavy heart, he turned on his heel, and went
his way.

CHAPTER X.

IN spite of his resolution to keep his
uneasiness to himself, Edward was too much
irritated by the ill success of his interference
to conceal from Catherine all his disquiet;
and he told her enough to add weight to
her former conviction, and to increase the
burden of her sorrow. Loving her the better
from the consciousness of the effort he had
made to defend her, and dreading his mother's
displeasure, he remained at the Parsonage until
late in the evening; and, having spent a few
minutes in the drawing-room, where Lady
Irwin's manner gave him little encouragement
to remain, he went off to his own room.
There he wrote the following letter to his
brother, which he carried to the post next
morning himself.

DEAR. BROTHER,—I came home last Tuesday week.
I dare say you know that I didn't do so badly at the
examination, after all. I brought home a prize which
pleased mother and delighted dear old Birkby. Father
did not say much, but he looked as if he liked it, and
made me bring it out to show Lord Allason when he
called. I found all well at home: going on much as
usual; father deep in some stratum or other at the
bottom of the Dead Sea—I shouldn't much wonder if
he were off to Palestine next week. I wish to Heaven
he would, and take mother with him! A pilgrimage
would do her a tremendous deal of good just now. I
wish with all my heart you and Kitty were married!
What is the reason it would puzzle a much wiser
head than mine to discover; but of this I'm sure:
she—mother, I mean—has taken a positive dislike to
Kitty. The worst of it is that Kitty knows it; and
you may believe that she looks none the better for
it. Of course, it's bad enough for her to have you
so long away, and if any one sees her look sad, she
puts it upon that; but mother has more to do with
it. Aunt Fanny is here with Clem and Ada, all
flounces and finery as usual. If it wasn't for father, no
one would take any notice of dear Kitty, but he's as
true as steel, and mother dares not say a word against
her to him. I'm sure he has a notion that there's
something wrong, for he pets Kitty like a child—much
more than he pets me, which does not please mother.
If you had only taken my advice, all the trouble would
have been over by this time; you may take my word
for it, that if you don't do something yourself, and
before long, mother will find some means to break it
off yet. You have no idea what a timid, nervous
creature Kitty is become in her presence.

I dare say you find it extremely jolly at Rome, it
must be nice to have lots of money and nothing to do. I
suppose I'm not likely to have much experience of either
of these pleasures. Father asked me, the other day,
if I should like to be a parson. I suppose he was in
joke, I took it so, for I only made a wry face. Fancy
mother sitting demurely to hear her son deal out
divinity! Don't forget dear Kitty, and when you write
don't say a word of what I have told you. Mother
always likes to read my letters, and it won't do to
make her angry. Do you get any skating? The ice
is four inches thick on the pond. Tomlins, a first-rate
fellow, who works in my room, is coming down next
week, if the frost only holds on, we shall have glorious
fun. Good night, old fellow, I'm so sleepy I can
hardly see. I wish you'd send me something about
some of the temples—the ruins, I mean. Finch dotes
on ruins.
Your affectionate brother,
EDWARD IRWIN.

When this letter reached Frank he was
recovering from an attack of fever, brought
on by the climate, and perhaps by anxiety.
He was consequently labouring under severe
depression of spirits. His fears had already
been excited by a coldness and constraint
in the letters he received from his mother,
and by the plaintive tenderness which
struggled through the assumed cheerfulness
of Catherine's. He had promised his
father to travel. He was to visit Greece
and parts of Asia, perhaps to penetrate
even to the land of joy and desolation—
the glorious and wasted Palestine. He had
been as yet only three quarters of a year
absent, and this was his second illness. It
was evident that the climate of Italy did not
agree with him. The image of her he loved
pining for him, and crushed by the dislike of
his stepmother, rose vividly before him. He
saw her paler and thinner, watching with
tearful eyes the embers as they fell, and
thinking of him so far away, with a heart
growing daily fainter, and wearying for the
comfort of his cheering voice. He read
those parts of his brother's letter, which
related to her, again and again. To be so
clear to the eyes of the boy, it must be bad
indeed. He himself, too, was lonely and
sorrowful. The sweet communion of thought
and feeling to which he had become habituated,
was checked, and the deepest emotions
of his soul lay, unexpressed, a heavy burden
on his spirit. One bold stroke, and she was
his own for ever. He knew his father's
indulgence, and that his mother's influence,
though great, was not unlimited.

The yearning to England once indulged,
became irresistible. Arguments readily
presented themselves, not only excusing, but
justifying, the apparent disobedience; and
the next morning saw him already on his
return. Once started, his impatience knew
no bounds. No railway, no steamboat, was
sufficiently expeditious for him; almost
before an answer could have been received to
his brother's letter, he arrived in person at
his father's door.

Amazement was the first emotion produced
by his unlooked-for appearance—amazement,