the shrubbery. A Scotch terrier scampered into
view; and a cheerful voice sang the first lines of
the glee in As You Like It. "It's papa!" cried
Magdalen. "Come, Norah—come and meet him."

Instead of following her sister, Norah pulled
down the veil of her garden-hat; turned in the
opposite direction; and hurried back to the house.

She ran up to her own room, and locked herself
in. She was crying bitterly.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN Magdalen and her father met in the
shrubbery, Mr. Vanstone's face showed plainly
that something had happened to please him, since
he had left home in the morning. He answered
the question which his daughter's curiosity at
once addressed to him, by informing her that he
had just come from Mr. Clare's cottage; and
that he had picked up, in that unpromising
locality, a startling piece of news for the family
at Combe-Raven.

On entering the philosopher's study that
morning, Mr. Vanstone had found him still
dawdling over his late breakfast, with an open
letter by his side, in place of the book which, on
other occasions, lay ready to his hand at meal-
times. He held up the letter, the moment his
visitor came into the room; and abruptly opened
the conversation by asking Mr. Vanstone if his
nerves were in good order, and if he felt himself
strong enough for the shock of an overwhelming
surprise.

"Nerves?" repeated Mr. Vanstone. "Thank
God, I know nothing about my nerves. If you
have got anything to tell me, shock or no shock,
out with it on the spot."

Mr. Clare held the letter a little higher, and
frowned at his visitor across the breakfast-table.
"What have I always told you?" he asked, with
his sourest solemnity of look and manner.

"A great deal more than I could ever keep in
my head," answered Mr. Vanstone.

"In your presence and out of it," continued
Mr. Clare, " I have always maintained that the
one important phenomenon presented by modem
society is—the enormous prosperity of Fools.
Show me an individual Fool, and I will show you
an aggregate Society which gives that highly-
favoured personage nine chances out of ten—and
grudges the tenth to the wisest man in existence.
Look where you will, in every high place there
sits an Ass, settled beyond the reach of all the
greatest intellects in this world to pull him
down. Over our whole social system,
complacent Imbecility rules supreme—snuffs out the
searching light of Intelligence, with total
impunity—and hoots, owl-like, in answer to every
form of protest, See how well we all do in the
dark! One of these days that audacious assertion
will be practically contradicted; and the
whole rotten system of modern society will come
down with a crash."

"God forbid!" cried Mr. Vanstone, looking
about him as if the crash was coming already.

"With a crash!" repeated Mr. Clare. " There
is my theory, in few words. Now for the
remarkable application of it, which this letter
suggests. Here is my lout of a boy—"

"You don't mean that Frank has got another
chance!" exclaimed Mr. Vanstone.

"Here is this perfectly hopeless booby,
Frank," pursued the philosopher. " He has never
done anything in his life to help himself, and, as
a necessary consequence, Society is in a
conspiracy to carry him to the top of the tree. He
has hardly had time to throw away that chance
you gave him, before this letter comes, and puts
the ball at his foot for the second time. My rich
cousin (who is intellectually fit to be at the tail
of the family, and who is therefore, as a matter
of course, at the head of it) has been good
enough to remember my existence; and has
offered his influence to serve my eldest boy.
Read his letter, and then observe the sequence
of events. My rich cousin is a booby who thrives
on landed property; he has done something for
another booby who thrives on Politics, who
knows a third booby, who thrives on Commerce,
who can do something for a fourth booby, thriving
at present on nothing, whose name is Frank.
So the mill goes. So the cream of all human
rewards is sipped in endless succession by the
Fools. I shall pack Frank off to-morrow. In
course of time, he'll come back again on our
hands like a bad shilling: more chances will fall
in his way as a necessary consequence of his
meritorious imbecility. Years will go on—I may
not live to see it, no more may you—it doesn't
matter; Frank's future is equally certain either
way—put him into the army, the church, politics,
what you please, and let him drift: he'll end in
being a general, a bishop, or a minister of state,
by dint of the great modern qualification of doing
nothing whatever to deserve his place." With
this summary of his son's worldly prospects, Mr.
Clare tossed the letter contemptuously across
the table, and poured himself out another cup of
tea.

Mr. Vanstone read the letter with eager
interest and pleasure. It was written in a tone of
somewhat elaborate cordiality; but the practical
advantages which it placed at Frank's disposal
were beyond all doubt. The writer had the means
of using a friend's interest—interest of no ordinary
kind with a great Mercantile Firm in the
City; and he had at once exerted this influence in
favour of Mr. Clare's eldest boy. Frank would
be received in the office on a very different footing
from the footing of an ordinary clerk; he
would be "pushed on" at every available
opportunity; and the first "good thing" the House
had to offer either at home or abroad, would be
placed at his disposal. If he possessed fair
abilities and showed common diligence in exercising
them, his fortune was made; and the sooner he
was sent to London to begin, the better for his
own interests it would be.

"Wonderful news!" cried Mr. Vanstone,