pernicious. There is a lack of principle--a want of rectitude in--
er--the French Press, for example, that is highly deplorable."

"And is the English Press immaculate?" asked Denzil languidly.

"We hope so," replied Sir Chetwynd. "We do our best to make it
so."

And with that remark he took his paunch and himself away into
retirement, leaving Dr. Dean and young Murray facing each other, a
singular pair enough in the contrast of their appearance and
dress,--the one small, lean and wiry, in plain-cut, loose-flowing
academic gown; the other tall, broad and muscular, clad in the
rich attire of mediaeval Florence, and looking for all the world
like a fine picture of that period stepped out from, its frame.
There was a silence between them for a moment,--then the Doctor
spoke in a low tone:

"It won't do, my dear boy,--I assure you it won't do! You will
break your heart over a dream, and make yourself miserable for
nothing. And you will break your sister's heart as well; perhaps
you haven't thought of that?"

Denzil flung himself into the chair Sir Chetwynd had just vacated,
and gave vent to a sigh that was almost a groan.

"Helen doesn't know anything--yet," he said hoarsely. "I know
nothing myself; how can I? I haven't said a word to--to HER. If I
spoke all that was in my mind, I daresay she would laugh at me.
You are the only one who has guessed my secret. You saw me last