admirably that you give me courage to confess my
weakness. I do dread to be old. All the joys of my life have been the
joys of youth. I have had so exquisite a pleasure in the mere sense of
living that old age, as it comes near, terrifies me by its dull eyes and
gray hairs. I have lived the life of a butterfly. Summer is over, and I
see my flowers withering; and my wings are chilled by the first airs of
winter. Yes, I envy Trevanion; for in public life no man is ever young,
and while he can work he is never old."

"My dear Beaudesert," said my father, "when Saint Amable, patron
saint of Riom, in Auvergne, went to Rome, the sun waited upon him as a
servant, carried his cloak and gloves for him in the heat, and kept off
the rain, if the weather changed, like an umbrella. You want to put the
sun to the same use you are quite right; but then, you see, you must
first be a saint before you can be sure of the sun as a servant."

Sir Sedley smiled charmingly; but the smile changed to a sigh as he
added, "I don't think I should much mind being a saint, if the sun would
be my sentinel instead of my courier. I want nothing of him but to stand
still. You see he moved even for Saint Amable. My dear madam, you and I
understand each other; and it is a very hard thing to grow old, do what
one will to keep young."

"What say you, Roland, of these two malcontents?" asked my father. The
Captain turned uneasily in his chair, for the rheumatism was gnawing his
shoulder, and sharp pains were shooting through his mutilated limb.

"I say," answered Roland, "that these men are wearied with marching from
Brentford to Windsor,--that they have never known the bivouac and the
battle."

Both the grumblers turned their eyes to the veteran: the eyes rested
first on the furrowed, care-worn lines in his eagle face; then they fell
on the stiff outstretched cork limb; and then they turned away.

Meanwhile my mother had softly risen, and under pretence of looking for
her work on the table near him, bent over the old soldier and pressed
his hand.

"Gentlemen," said my father, "I don't think my brother ever heard of
Nichocorus, the Greek comic writer; yet he has illustrated him very
ably. Saith Nichocorus, 'The best cure for drunkenness is a sudden
calamity.' For chronic drunkenness, a continued course of real
misfortune must be very salutary!"

No answer came from the two complainants; and my father took up a great
book.

CHAPTER II.

"Mr