not even the half of it!"

"He has an intellectual face, Biddy," observed her husband. "Pale just
now, but it's 'the pale cast of thought.' What are you aiming at,
Piers?"

"I don't know," was the reply, absently spoken.

"Ah, but I'm sorry to hear that. You should have concentrated yourself
by now, indeed you should. If I had to begin over again, I should go in
for commerce."

Piers gave him a look of interest.

"Indeed? You mean that?"

"I do. I would apply myself to the science and art of money-making in
the only hopeful way--honest buying and selling. There's something so
satisfying about it. I envy even the little shopkeeper, who reckons up
his profits every Saturday night, and sees his business growing. But
you must begin early; you must learn money-making like anything else.
If I had made money, Piers, I should be at this moment the most
virtuous and meritorious citizen of the British Empire!"

Alexander was vexed to find that his brother did not smoke. He lit his
pipe after tea, and for a couple of hours talked ceaselessly, relating
the course of his adventurous life; an entertaining story, told with
abundant vigour, with humorous originality. Though he had in his
possession scarce a dozen volumes, Alexander was really a bookish man
and something of a scholar; his quotations, which were frequent, ranged
from Homer to Horace, from Chaucer to Tennyson. He recited a few of his
own poetical compositions, and they might have been worse; Piers made
him glow and sparkle with a little praise.

Meanwhile, Bridget was putting the children to bed and cooking the
evening meal--styled dinner for this occasion. Both proceedings were
rather tumultuous, but, amid the clamour they necessitated, no word of
ill-temper could be heard; screams of laughter, on the other hand, were
frequent. With manifest pride the little servant came in to lay the
table; she only broke one glass in the operation, and her "Sure now,
who'd have thought it!" as she looked at the fragments, delighted
Alexander beyond measure. The chief dish was a stewed rabbit, smothered
in onions; after it appeared an immense gooseberry tart, the pastry
hardly to be attacked with an ordinary table knife. Compromising for
the nonce with his teetotalism as well as his vegetarianism--not to
pain the hosts--Piers drank bottled ale. It was an uproarious meal. The
little servant, whilst in attendance, took her full share of the
conversation, and joined shrilly in t