well worth your perusal," Miss Martindale
continued, "not only learned and eloquent,
but high-toned and original, so earnest, too,
that the writer has quite forgotten himself in
his subject—a rare charm in writing—at least
to me." There was a certain soft earnestness
in her own tone which—contrasted with her
usual spirit and life—had a bewitching effect.
Clayton made an irresolute clutch whether
at the book, or at the fair hand that offered it
seemed doubtful. The former, once in his
possession, a gleam of pleasure lit up his face.
Then he sat silent, his head propped on his hand.

I have no hope whatever that I could
maintain a mystery against the acuteness of
my readers. The anonymous article praised
by Miss Martindale was—as I afterwards
learned—written by Mr. Clayton himself. I
fancied that from that time a confidential
feeling sprang up between them. The lady,
it is true, responded impartially as heretofore
to all claims on her attention; but there
were some chance minutes daily when she
might be seen winding down the avenue,
attended only by her uncle and the eccentric
student.

It cannot be supposed that this toleration
—even favour on the part of Miss Martindale
—escaped the notice of the putter-down.
He perceived it, I am sure, with indignation,
and grew so relentless in his hostilities
to the nervous sufferer, that I
was heartily glad to learn from the Doctor
that he had ordered Clayton to abstain from
society for some days, and to pursue the
hydropathic treatment in quiet.

Accordingly—although we had occasional
glimpses of the lonely patient as he struck
across the park after his douche, or bore
down homeward from the breezy wolds—we
met no more for several weeks. Dr. Mason
was reserved in his answer to our inquiries.
The most decisive bulletin we could get from
him was that he thought now Mr. Clayton
would do.

One morning, shortly after this, we had a
large reinforcement of invalids. A
supplementary table was placed in the breakfast
room, and every seat was filled. For some
days previously there had been a marked
relaxation in the Dixit tyranny; because, I
suppose, even despotism palls when constantly
exercised over the same submissive victims.
Our Cæsar had given us holiday while he
strove to reinstate himself into the graces of
Miss Martindale, or to appease the tender
jealousy of Lady Ursula. But with the new
comers he was himself again. His supremacy
had again to be asserted: the barbarous,
who had never heard of him, had to own his
yoke. Accordingly, the number of persons
was that day unusually large who learned
their relative position to Mr. Dixit, and who
were awed and astonished into silence.
These results were not always gained without
a struggle; but it was the futile struggle of
the swimmer against the vortex.

"Don't tell me, sir, of the mitigation of
the penal code of reformatory schools for
juvenile delinquents and so-forth. A boy
criminal is the worst of all criminals. He
begins by being bad. Crime runs in his
blood. Up with him—like a fungus."

This was launched by the dictator against
a mild and persistent quaker, who, essaying
to reply, found that his antagonist had
seemingly forgotten his existence, and was
deep in a flirtation with the lady next to
him.

"I think what this gentleman urged
deserves attention," said a calm clear voice
which produced an instant hush; "that our
only remedy for young offenders is to extirpate
them, is a conclusion which at all events
needs strong reasons."

Mr. Dixit's glass was in prompt requisition
as he sought out the speaker from the
herd of nobodies with an amused smile.

"Pardon me, I forgot you were short-sighted,"
said he of the voice, rising composedly
and taking a seat just vacated and
directly opposite to Mr. Dixit's. "Now, if
you please, we can discuss the matter."

The transformation wrought by the water
cure had been so complete that we observed
with wonder that calm smiling face, that
port equally firm and courteous, that clear
flexible voice, that hair, wavy but no longer
wild—could all these indeed be attributes of
the awkward, abrupt, grotesque being whom
Dixit had expelled from his dominions?

And Clayton was now ready to discuss the
matter, even with a Dixit. That gentleman
—at first confounded—next bent his eyes
upon Clayton, then turned them in mute
appeal to the general company. With the
same pantomime have I seen a phrenological
lecturer point to a flat organ of veneration
in the cast of one who in his lifetime had
respected nothing in the earth or above it.
At present, however, the spectators showed
interest rather than horror. By her short,
hysteric laugh, Lady Ursula evidently moved
that Claytou should be forthwith convicted
of impiety, but no one seconded the resolution.

Mr. Dixit thought it necessary to speak.
"Discussion," said he, "is a traffic, an
interchange of ideas. I do not enter upon that
kind of barter unless I am sure of an
equivalent."

These words were uttered with slow scorn.
The speaker was taking high ground, and
such is the force of custom, a faint murmur
of assent succeeded.

"A very just definition," replied Clayton.
"It is one of the advantages of discussion
that he who does not find his account in it
may decline it. But dictation is a thing of
another kind; it implies, not a commodity
exchanged, but a tax imposed—in which case
we may reasonably ask to look at the
warrant."

The two wrestlers had entered the ring,