istance, the snow-capped Alps of the St. Bernard, while
around and close to the very water's edge peeped forth little villas,
half smothered in orange-blossoms. Far over the lake came their floating
perfumes, as though to lend enchantment to each sense, and steep the
very soul in a delicious luxury.

Now, as Calvert felt the refreshing breath of the gentle air that
stirred the water, he was conscious of a glorious morning, and of
something generally grand in the scene about him; but that was all. He
had little romance--less of the picturesque--in his nature. If his eyes
fell on the lake, it was to fancy the enjoyment of cleaving through
it as a swimmer; if he turned towards the Alps, it was to imagine how
toilsome would prove the ascent; how deeply lay the snow on the wheels
of the diligence; how many feet below the surface were buried the poles
that once marked out the road. But even these were but fleeting fancies.
His thoughts were seriously turned upon his own future, which opened no
bright or brilliant prospect before him. To go back again to India,
to return to the old regimental drudgery, or the still more wearisome
existence of life in a remote detachment; to waste what he felt the
best years of life in inglorious indolence, waiting for that routine
promotion that comes associated with the sense of growing old; and to
trace at last the dim vista of a return to England, when of an age
that all places and people and things have grown to be matters of
indifference. These were sad reflections. So sad, that not even the
bright scene around him could dispel. And then there were others, which
needed no speculation to suggest, and which came with the full force of
documents to sustain them. He was heavily in debt. He owed money to
the army agent, to the paymaster, to the Agra Bank, to the regimental
tailor, to the outfitter--to everyone, in short, who would suffer him to
be a debtor. Bonds, and I O's, and promissory notes, renewed till they
had nigh doubled, pressed on his memory, and confused his powers of
calculation.

An old uncle, a brother of his mother's, who was his guardian, would
once on a time have stood by him, but he had forfeited his good esteem
by an act of deception with regard to money, which the old man could not
forgive. "Be it so," said he; "I deemed my friendship for you worth more
than three hundred pounds. You, it would seem, are differently minded;
keep the money and let us part." And they did pa