your heart if he does not comfort it?"

Darrell winced and answered gently, "I did not know you were in the room.
Poor Fairthorn; thank you!"

"Thank me!--what for?"

"For a kind thought. So, then, you like the boy?"

"Mayn't I like him?" asked Fairthorn, looking rather frightened; "surely
you do!"

"Yes, I like him much; I am trying my best to love him. But, but"--
Darrell turned quickly, and the portrait of his father over the
mantelpiece came full upon his sight,--an impressive, a haunting face,
--sweet and gentle, yet with the high narrow brow and arched nostril of
pride, with restless melancholy eyes, and an expression that revealed the
delicacy of intellect, but not its power. There was something forlorn,
but imposing, in the whole effigy. As you continued to look at the
countenance, the mournful attraction grew upon you. Truly a touching and
a most lovable aspect. Darrell's eyes moistened.

"Yes, my father, it is so!" he said softly. "All my sacrifices were in
vain. The race is not to be rebuilt! No grandchild of yours will
succeed me,--me, the last of the old line! Fairthorn, how can I love
that boy? He may be my heir, and in his veins not a drop of my father's
blood!"

"But he has the blood of your father's ancestors; and why must you think
of him as your heir?--you, who, if you would but go again into the world,