to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow
of a rich clergyman, and on her husband's death came to this place to
live, bringing her husband's library with her: I soon found my way to it,
and examined every book. Her husband must have been a learned man, for
amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found several volumes in Armenian, or
relating to the language."

"And why did you not tell me of this before?"

"Because you never questioned me; but I repeat, there is nothing to
conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, and, being fond of
the arts, drew my portrait; she said the expression of my countenance put
her in mind of Alfieri's Saul."

"And do you still visit her?"

"No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very
stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however."

"Saul," said my father, musingly, "Saul; I am afraid she was only too
right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on
his head the vengeance of Heaven--he became a maniac, prophesied, and
flung weapons about him."

"He was, indeed, an awful character--I hope I shan't turn out like him."

"God forbid!" said my father, solemnly; "but in many respects you are
headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and
besought you to make yourself master of it, by giving it your undivided
attention. This, however, you did not do; you know nothing of it, but
tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is
your want of candour--you are my son, but I know little of your real
history; you may know fifty things for what I am aware: you may know how
to shoe a horse for what I am aware."

"Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes."

"Perhaps so," said my father; "and it only serves to prove what I was
just saying, that I know little about you."

"But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you
may wish to know--shall I inform you how I learnt to make horse-shoes?"

"No," said my father; "as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well
continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted boy, like one I
could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But
I now wish to ask you a serious question--what do you propose to do?"

"To do, father?"

"Yes! the time for which you were articled to your profession will soon
be expired, and I shall be no more."

"Do not talk so, my dear father; I have no doubt