s short pipe as an
accompaniment to his wine. During dinner, he had been regaling Lionel
with choice anecdotes of his Australian life, laughing ever; but not a
syllable had he broached yet about the "business" he had put forth as
the plea for the invitation to Lionel to come. The anecdotes did not
raise the social features of that far-off colony in Mr. Verner's
estimation. But he laughed with John; laughed as merrily as his heavy
heart would allow him.

It was quite a wintry day, telling of the passing autumn. The skies were
leaden-gray; the dead leaves rustled on the paths; and the sighing wind
swept through the trees with a mournful sound. Void of brightness, of
hope, it all looked, as did Lionel Verner's fortunes. But a few short
weeks ago he had been in John Massingbird's place, in the very chair
that _he_ now sat in, never thinking to be removed from it during life.
And now!--what a change!

"Why don't you smoke, Lionel?" asked John, setting light to his pipe by
the readiest way--that of thrusting it between the bars of the grate.
"You did not care to smoke in the old days, I remember."

"I never cared for it," replied Lionel.

"I can tell you that you would have cared for it, had you been knocked
about as I have. Tobacco's meat and drink to a fellow at the diggings;
as it is to a sailor and a soldier."

"Not to all soldiers," observed Lionel. "My father never smoked an ounce
of tobacco in his life. I have heard them say so. And he saw some
service."

"Every man to his liking," returned John Massingbird. "Folks preach
about tobacco being an acquired taste! It's all bosh. Babies come into
the world with a liking for it, I know. Talking about your father, would
you like to have that portrait of him that hangs in the large
drawing-room? You can if you like. I'm sure you have more right to it
than I."

"Thank you," replied Lionel. "I should very much like it, if you will
give it me."

"What a fastidious chap you are, Lionel!" cried John Massingbird,
pulling vigorously; for the pipe was turning refractory, and would not
keep alight. "There are lots of things you have left behind you here,
that I, in your place, should have marched off without asking."

"The things are yours. That portrait of my father belonged to my Uncle
Stephen, and he made no exception in its favour when he willed Verner's
Pride, and all it contained, away from me. In point of legal right, I
was at liberty to touch nothing, beyond my pers