Darrell in such terms as may not needlessly pain him by the obtrusion of
my sufferings. For, while I know him well enough to be convinced that
nothing could move him from resolves in which he had entrenched, as in a
citadel, his pride or his creed of honour, I am sure that he would take
into his own heart all the grief which those resolves occasioned to
another's."

"You do him justice there," cried Alban; "you are a noble fellow to
understand him so well! Sir, you have in you the stuff that makes
English gentlemen such generous soldiers."

"Action, action, action," exclaimed Lionel. "Strife, strife! No other
chance of cure. Rest is so crushing, solitude so dismal."

Lo! how contrasted the effect of a similar cause of grief at different
stages of life! Chase the first day-dreams of our youth, and we cry,
"Action--Strife!" In that cry, unconsciously to ourselves, HOPE speaks
and proffers worlds of emotion not yet exhausted. Disperse the last
golden illusion in which the image of happiness cheats our experienced
manhood, and HOPE is silent; she has no more worlds to offer--unless,
indeed, she drop her earthly attributes, change her less solemn name, and
float far out of sight as "FAITH!"

Alban made no immediate reply to Lionel; but, seating himself more
comfortably in his chair--planting his feet still more at ease upon his
fender--the kindly Man of the World silently revolved all the possible
means by which Darrell might yet be softened and Lionel rendered happy.
His reflections dismayed him. "Was there ever such untoward luck," he
said at last, and peevishly, "that out of the whole world you should fall
in love with the very girl against whom Darrell's feelings (prejudices if