. The world wants me; it has work for
me. I can hear its voices calling me now, and I am not ready. Don't
think I am to sit and languish and pine for any girl;" and his mouth
was firm with will and purpose, and a great swell of pride and pain
agitated the bosom of his mother, who recognized the high elements of
a nature drawn from her own.

"You know, mother," he continued, thoughtfully, "that I am not one
to be loved. I am not handsome and popular, like Morris, whom all
men like and many women love; nor thoughtful and accomplished and
considerate, like Henry, whom everybody esteems and respects, and of
whom so much is expected."

"Do you envy them, Barton?"

"Envy them, mother? Don't I love the world for loving Morris? Don't I
follow him about to feel the gladness that he brings? Don't I live on
the praises of Henry? and don't I tear every man that utters a doubt
of his infallibility? Poor old Dominie Young! I was savage on him last
night, for an unnecessary remark about Henry; and I'll go and hear him
preach, to show my contrition; and penitence can't go further. Now,
mother dear, I probably wanted this, and I am now down on the flat,
hard foundation of things. Don't blame this Julia, and don't think of
her in connection with me. No girl will ever scorn one of your boys
but once."

She lingered, and would have said more; but he put her away with
affected gayety, and said he was coming down immediately,--and he did.
But the melancholy chords vibrated long.

There was another overhauling of the little desk, and innumerable
sketches of various excellence, having a family resemblance, with
faults in common, were sent to join the departed verses.

That night, in a letter to Henry, he said: "I've burned the last of my
ships, not saving even a small boat."

* * * * *

Mrs. Ridgeley pondered over the revelation which her woman's
intuitions had drawn from Barton. No woman can understand why a son
of hers should fail with any natural-born daughter of woman, and she
suspected that poor Bart had, with his usual impetuosity, managed the
affair badly. No matter if he had; she felt that he was not an object
of any woman's scorn; and this particular Julia, she had every reason
to know, would live to correct her impressions and mourn her folly.
She, however, was incapable of injustice to even her own sex; and if
Julia did not fancy Barton, she was not to blame, however faulty her
taste. She