he same
feature in his son was covered with down like a young bird.

Louis blushed a little, but spoke indifferently. 'I thought it a pity
not to leave it for the regulation moustache for the Yeomanry.'

'I wish I could think you likely to be fit to go out with the Yeomanry.'

'Every effort must be made!' cried Louis. 'What do they say in London
about the invasion?'

It was the year 1847, when a French invasion was in every one's mouth,
and Sydney Calcott had been retailing all sorts of facts about
war-steamers and artillery, in a visit to Fitzjocelyn, whose patriotism
had forthwith run mad, so that he looked quite baffled when his father
coolly set the whole down as 'the regular ten years' panic.' There was
a fervid glow within him of awe, courage, and enterprise, the outward
symbol of which was that infant yellow moustache. He was obliged,
however, to allow the subject to be dismissed, while his father told
him of Sir Miles Oakstead's kind inquiries, and gave a message of
greeting from his aunt Lady Conway, delivering himself of it as an
unpleasant duty, and adding, as he turned to Mrs. Ponsonby, 'She
desired to be remembered to you, Mary.'

'I have not seen her for many years. Is Sir Walter alive?'

'No; he died about three years ago.'

'I suppose her daughters are not come out yet?'

'Her own are in the school-room; but there is a step-daughter who is
much admired.'

'Those cousins of mine,' exclaimed Louis, 'it is strange that I have
never seen them. I think I had better employ some of my spare time
this summer in making their acquaintance.'

Mrs. Ponsonby perceived that the Earl had become inspired with a deadly
terror of the handsome stepdaughter; for he turned aside and began to
unpack a parcel. It was M'Culloch's Natural Theology, into which Louis
had once dipped at Mr. Calcott's, and had expressed a wish to read it.
His father had taken some pains to procure this too-scarce book for
him, and he seized on it with delighted and surprised gratitude,
plunging at once into the middle, and reading aloud a most eloquent
passage upon electricity. No beauty, however, could atone to Lord
Ormersfield for the outrage upon method. 'If you would oblige me,
Louis,' he said, 'you would read that book consecutively.'

'To oblige you, certainly,' said Louis, smiling, and turning to the
first page, but his vivacious eagerness was extinguished.

M'Culloch is not an author to be thoroughly read without a str