himself, and had no difficulty in doing this, as his father never
alluded to the subject of his work. Cyril knew that, did he hand over
to him all the money he made, it would be wasted in drink or at
cards; consequently, he kept the table furnished as modestly as at
first, and regularly placed after dinner on the corner of the mantel
a few coins, which his father as regularly dropped into his pocket.

A few days before the story opens, Sir Aubrey had, late one evening,
been carried upstairs, mortally wounded in a brawl; he only recovered
consciousness a few minutes before his death.

"You have been a good lad, Cyril," he said faintly, as he feebly
pressed the boy's hand; "far better than I deserve to have had. Don't
cry, lad; you will get on better without me, and things are just as
well as they are. I hope you will come to your estates some day; you
will make a better master than I should ever have done. I hope that
in time you will carry out your plan of entering some foreign
service; there is no chance here. I don't want you to settle down as
a city scrivener. Still, do as you like, lad, and unless your wishes
go with mine, think no further of service."

"I would rather be a soldier, father. I only undertook this work
because I could see nothing else."

"That is right, my boy, that is right. I know you won't forget that
you come of a race of gentlemen."

He spoke but little after that. A few broken words came from his lips
that showed that his thoughts had gone back to old times. "Boot and
saddle," he murmured. "That is right. Now we are ready for them. Down