"Yes," said Leonard, between his set teeth. Harley laid his hand on the
boy's shoulder. "Then, indeed, I have a claim on you; then, indeed, we
are friends. I have a right to serve any of that family."

Leonard looked at him in surprise--"For," continued Harley, recovering
himself, "they always served my family; and my recollections of Lansmere,
though boyish, are indelible." He spurred on his horse as the words
closed, and again there was a long pause; but from that time Harley
always spoke to Leonard in a soft voice, and often gazed on him with
earnest and kindly eyes.

They reached a house in a central, though not fashionable street. A man-
servant of a singularly grave and awful aspect opened the door,--a man
who had lived all his life with authors. Poor fellow, he was indeed
prematurely old! The care on his lip and the pomp on his brow--no
mortal's pen can describe!

"Is Mr. Norreys at home?" asked Harley.

"He is at home--to his friends, my Lord," answered the man, majestically;
and he stalked across the hall with the step of a Dangeau ushering some
Montmorenci into the presence of Louis le Grand.

"Stay; show this gentleman into another room. I will go first into the
library; wait for me, Leonard." The man nodded, and conducted Leonard
into the dining-room. Then pausing before the door of the library, and
listening an instant, as if fearful to disturb some mood of inspiration,
opened it very softly. To his ineffable disgust, Harley pushed before,
and entered abruptly. It was a large room, lined with books from the