some time.

I had one comfort in life--a friend whom I loved dearer than a brother,
Lancelot Fleming; and lately he had come into possession of a very nice
estate called Dutton Manor, a fine old mansion, standing in the midst of
an extensive park, and with it an income of three thousand per annum.
Lance Fleming had been brought up to the bar, but he never cared much
for his profession, and was much pleased when he succeeded to his
cousin's estate.

He had invited me several times to visit Dutton Manor, but something or
other had always intervened to prevent it. Lance came to see me; we
traveled together; we were the very opposite of each other. He was
frank, gay, cheerful, always laughing, always with some grand jest on
the tapis--a laughing, sunny, blue-eyed fellow, who was like a sunbeam
in every house he entered; he was always either whistling or singing,
and his bright, cheery voice trolled out such snatches of sweet song
that it was a pleasure to hear him.

I am naturally melancholy, and have a tendency to look always on the
dark side of things. You can imagine how I loved Lance Fleming; the love
that other men give to wives, children, parents and relatives I lavished
on him. I loved his fair, handsome face, his laughing blue eyes, his
sunny smile, his cheery voice; I loved his warm-hearted, genial manner.
In fact, I loved the whole man, just as he was, with a love passing that
of women--loved him as I shall love no other.

Naturally enough, Lance was a great favorite with the ladies; every
woman who saw him loved him more or less. He was quite irresistible
when, in addition to his handsome face and sweet temper, came the charm