transformation in his brother. Indeed, there was alteration in the
absence of the blue and gold, and, still more, in the loss of the
lightsome, hopeful expression from the young face.

There is a picture of Ary Scheffer's of an old knight, whose son had
fled from the battle, cutting the tablecloth in two between himself
and the unhappy youth. Like that stern baron's countenance was that
with which my mother sat at the head of the dinner-table, and we
conversed by jerks about whatever we least cared for, as if we could
hide our wretchedness from Peter. When the children appeared each
gave Clarence the shyest of kisses, and they sat demurely on their
chairs on either side of my father to eat their almonds and raisins,
after which we went upstairs, and there was the usual reading. It
is curious, but though none of us could have told at the time what
it was about, on turning over not long ago a copy of Head's Pampas
and Andes, one chapter struck me with an intolerable sense of
melancholy, such as the bull chases of South America did not seem
adequate to produce, and by and by I remembered that it was the book
in course of being read at that unhappy period. My mother went on
as diligently as ever with some of those perpetual shirts which
seemed to be always in hand except before company, when she used to
do tambour work for Emily's frocks. Clarence sat the whole time in
a dark corner, never stirring, except that he now and then nodded a
little. He had gone through many wakeful, and worse than wakeful,
nights of wretched suspense, and now the worst was over.

Family prayers took place, chill good-nights were exchanged, and
nobody interfered with his helping me up to my bedroom as usual; but
there was something in his face to which I durst not speak, though
perhaps I looked, for he exclaimed, 'Don't, Ned!' wrung my hand, and