urse, the return of its lawful mistress. Carew himself
is very bitter against you, which is doubtless owing to the good offices
of grandmamma. The clock has just struck four, which bids me close this
letter, though of all the Squire's guests, to judge by the wrangling
that is going on in the Library below stairs, the first to retire will
be your affectionate son, RICHARD YORKE."

"P.S.--I forgot to say that Carew made the most pointed inquiries as to
whether I had any other profession than that of landscape-painting.
Would it not be strangely comical if he should bestir himself to get me
some Civil appointment! I almost fancied he must have been thinking of
doing so, from some scraps of talk I heard him let fall at dinner.
Curiously enough, by-the-by, who should have been sitting at his
right-hand, but Frederick Chandos, Jack's brother! 'Good Heaven!' (you
will say), 'suppose it had been Jack himself;' however, it was not."

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW BENEDICT BECAME A BACHELOR.

Notwithstanding the late hour at which Yorke retired to his sumptuous
couch, he was up the next morning betimes. He was restless, and eager to
explore the splendors of the house, that had been so nearly his
inheritance, for it was not without a stubborn contest that the law had
deprived him of what he still believed to be his rights. Nor had
Crompton, in his eyes (as we have hinted), only the interest of
Might-have-been; it had that of Might-be also. If not absolutely
sanguine, he was certainly far from hopeless of fortune making him that
great amends; at all events, while the opportunity was afforded him,
which he well knew might be lost forever by his own imprudence, or
through the caprice of another, he resolved not to neglect it. It was
broad daylight, yet not a soul was stirring in all the stately place;
nothing but the echo of his own footsteps, as he trod the corridor, and
entered the great Picture-gallery, met his attentive ear. The collection
of old masters at Crompton was varied and valuable; he could have spent
hours among them with infinite pleasure, if the intoxicating thought
that they all might be one day his own had not been present to mar their
charms. He regarded them less as an admiring disciple, or a connoisseur,
than as an appraiser. The homely life-scenes of Jan Stein, the saintly
creations of Paul Veronese, the warmth of Rubens, and the stateliness of
Vandyck, were all measured by one standard--that of price. The conte