depressed in mind and ailing in body. Life had proved too much for
him; the burden of the recurring daylight was beyond his strength.
There was plainly no lack of kindliness in his disposition, and this
never failed to come strongly into his countenance as often as he
looked at Harriet. She was his only child. Her mother had died of
consumption early in their married life, and it was his perpetual
dread lest he should discover in Harriet a disposition to the same
malady.

His fears had but too much stimulus to keep them alive. Harriet had
passed through a sickly childhood, and was growing up with a feeble
constitution. Body and mind were alike unhealthy. Of all the people
who came in contact with her, her father alone was blind to her
distorted sense of right, her baseless resentments, her malicious
pleasures, her depraved intellect. His affection she repaid with
indifference. At present, the only person she appeared to really
like was the servant Sarah, a girl of vicious character.

Harriet had suffered more from Ida's blow than had at first appeared
likely. The wound would not heal well, and she had had several
feverish nights. For her convenience, the couch had been drawn up
between the fire and the table; and, reclining here, she every now
and then threw out a petulant word in reply to her father's or
Julian's well-meant cheerfulness. But for the boy, the gloomy
silence would seldom have been broken. He, however, was full
to-night of a favourite subject, and kept up a steady flow of bright
narrative. At school he was much engaged just now with the history
of Rome, and it was his greatest delight to tell the listeners at
home the glorious stories which were his latest acquisitions. All
to-day he had been reading Plutarch. The enthusiasm with which he