knew the visitor by sight and name, having often remarked him on the
grounds with Lady Montfort and Sophy, said, in a cheerful tone, as if
bringing good news, "Mr. Lionel Haughton."

Scarcely was the door closed--scarcely the young man in the room, before,
with all his delightful, passionate frankness, Lionel had clasped Waife's
reluctant hand in both his own, and, with tears in his eyes, and choking
in his voice, was pouring forth sentences so loosely knit together that
they seemed almost incoherent; now a burst of congratulation--now a
falter of condolence--now words that seemed to supplicate as for pardon
to an offence of his own--rapid transitions from enthusiasm to pity, from
joy to grief--variable, with the stormy April of a young, fresh, hearty
nature.

Taken so wholly by surprise, Waife, in vain attempting to appear cold and
distant, and only very vaguely comprehending what the unwelcome visitor
so confusedly expressed, at last found voice to interrupt the jet and
gush of Lionel's impetuous emotion, and said as drily as he could: "I am
really at a loss to conceive the cause of what appears to be meant as
congratulations to me and reproaches to yourself, Mr.--, Mr. Haugh--;"
his lips could not complete the distasteful name.

"My name shocks you--no wonder," said Lionel, deeply mortified, and
bowing down his head as he gently dropped the old man's hand.
"Reproaches to myself!--Ah, sir, I am here as Charles Haughton's son!"

"What!" exclaimed Waife, "you know? How could you know that Charles
Haughton--"

LIONEL (interrupting).--" I know. His own lips confessed his shame to