"Not in the streets--oh, no! father," cried I, touched inexpressibly.
For all this was so unlike my father's habits that I felt remorse to
have so communicated my young griefs to the calm dignity of his serene
life.

"My son, you do not know how I love you; I have only known it myself
lately. Look you, I am living in you now, my first-born; not in my
other son,--the Great Book: I must have my way. Go in; that is the
door, is it riot?"

I pressed my father's hand, and I felt then, that while that hand could
reply to mine, even the loss of Fanny Trevanion could not leave the
world a blank. How much we have before us in life, while we retain our
parents! How much to strive and to hope for! what a motive in the
conquest of our sorrow, that they may not sorrow with us!




CHAPTER III.


I entered Trevanion's study. It was an hour in which he was rarely at
home, but I had not thought of that; and I saw without surprise that,
contrary to his custom, he was in his arm-chair, reading one of his
favorite classic authors, instead of being in some committee-room of the
House of Commons.

"A pretty fellow you are," said he, looking up, "to leave me all the
morning, without rhyme or reason! And my committee is postponed,--