arrear of correspondence on behalf of his employer, left the lad during
the forenoons to solitary angling, or social intercourse with the swans
and the tame doe. But from some mystic concealment within doors would
often float far into the open air the melodies of that magic flute; and
the boy would glide back, along the dark-red mournful walls of the old
house, or the futile pomp of pilastered arcades in the uncompleted new
one, to listen to the sound: listening, he, blissful boy, forgot the
present; he seized the unchallenged royalty of his years. For him no
rebels in the past conspired with poison to the wine-cup, murder to the
sleep. No deserts in the future, arresting the march of ambition, said,
"Here are sands for a pilgrim, not fields for a conqueror."




CHAPTER X.

In which chapter the history quietly moves on to the next.

Thus nearly a week had gone, and Lionel began to feel perplexed as to the
duration of his visit. Should he be the first to suggest departure? Mr.
Darrell rescued him from that embarrassment. On the seventh day, Lionel
met his host in a lane near the house, returning from his habitual ride.
The boy walked home by the side of the horseman, patting the steed,
admiring its shape, and praising the beauty of another saddle-horse,
smaller and slighter, which he had seen in the paddock exercised by a
groom. "Do you ever ride that chestnut? I think it even handsomer than
this."

"Half our preferences are due to the vanity they flatter. Few can ride