him. "Chevalier Bayard would not be appreciated in these times."

He listened with a smile on his face, while the young man talked of
something to do--some grand action to fill up his life, some heroic deed
with which to crown himself.

"Utopian, Basil--all those are Utopian ideas. Progress is the order of
the day."

"Is there nothing?" asked Basil, "no way in which a man may distinguish
himself after the fashion of the heroes of old?"

The colonel smiled sarcastically.

"My dear boy," he said, "between ourselves, some of those heroes of
yours were unmitigated ruffians, I hardly like to give utterance to such
a sentiment, yet I believe it. You cannot defend a bridge after the
fashion of Horatius--you cannot conquer worlds like Alexander. I fancy
you will have to be content with being one of the best lords of the
manor Rutsford has ever known."

"You are sentimental, Basil," he said to him one morning, "but not
practical. A man is nothing unless he is practical. Why not give up all
these foolish notions of being a great hero? Go down to Ulverston,
build schools, almhouses, mechanics' institutes and all that kind of
thing. Marry and bring up your family to fear God and serve the queen.
One ounce of such practice is worth all the theory in the world."

But Basil could not see it--he longed for the unattainable, the ideal.
What lay plainly before him was a matter of great indifference to him.