cannot envy nor comprehend either! yet my own existence--what is it?"

He rose, and moved towards the window, from which a rustic stair
descended to a green lawn, studded with larger trees than are often found
in the grounds of a suburban residence. There were calm and coolness in
the sight, and one could scarcely have supposed that London lay so near.

The door opened softly, and a lady past middle age entered, and
approaching Harley, as he still stood musing by the window, laid her hand
on his shoulder. What character there is in a hand! Hers was a hand
that Titian would have painted with elaborate care! Thin, white, and
delicate, with the blue veins raised from the surface. Yet there was
something more than mere patrician elegance in the form and texture. A
true physiologist would have said at once, "There are intellect and pride
in that hand, which seems to fix a hold where it rests; and lying so
lightly, yet will not be as lightly shaken off."

"Harley," said the lady--and Harley turned--"you do not deceive me by
that smile," she continued sadly; "you were not smiling when I entered."

"It is rarely that we smile to ourselves, my dear mother; and I have done
nothing lately so foolish as to cause me to smile at myself."

"My son," said Lady Lansmere, somewhat abruptly, but with great
earnestness, "you come from a line of illustrious ancestors; and methinks
they ask from their tombs why the last of their race has no aim and no
object, no interest, no home, in the land which they served, and which
rewarded them with its honours."

"Mother," said the soldier, simply, "when the land was in danger I served