on Bill Considine. You must not return to the
Peninsula--at least not yet awhile; the disgust of life may be strong at
twenty, but it's not lasting; besides, Charley," here his voice faltered
slightly, "_his_ wishes you'll not treat lightly. Read this."

As he spoke, he took a blotted and ill-written letter from his
breast-pocket, and handed it to me. It was in my poor uncle's hand, and
dated the very morning of his death. It ran thus:--

Dear Bill,--Charley must never part with the old house,
come what will; I leave too many ties behind for a stranger's heritage;
he must live among my old friends, and watch, protect
and comfort them. He has done enough for fame; let him now
do something for affection. We have none of us been over good
to these poor people; one of the name must try and save our
credit. God bless you both! It is, perhaps, the last time I shall
utter it.

G. O'M.

I read these few and, to me, affecting lines over and over, forgetful of
all save of him who penned them; when Considine, who supposed that my
silence was attributable to doubt and hesitation, called out:--

"Well, what now?"

"I remain," said I, briefly.

He seized me in his arms with transport, as he said:--

"I knew it, boy, I knew it. They told me you were spoiled by flattery, and
your head turned by fortune; they said that home and country would weigh
lightly in the balance against fame and glory; but I said no, I knew you
better. I told them indignantly that I had nursed you on my knee; that I
watched you from infancy to boyhood, from boy to man; that he of whose
stock you came had one feeling paramount to all, his love of his own
fatherland, and that you would not disgrace him. Besides, Charley, there's
not an humble hearth for many a long mile around us, where, amidst the
winter's blast, tempered not excluded, by frail walls and poverty,--there's
not one such but where poor Godfrey's name rises each night in prayer, and
blessings are invoked on him by those who never felt them themselves."

"I'll not desert them."

"I know you'll not, boy, I know you'll not. Now for the means."

Here he entered into a long and complicated exposure of my dear uncle's
many difficulties, by which it appeared that, in order to leave the estate
free of debt to me, he had for years past undergone severe privations.
These, however,--such is the misfortune of an unguided effort,--had but
ill succeeded, and there