near horse so--and
that you can but look forward to poverty and dependence."

"What! You won't help me?" cries Harry, turning quite pale.

"George, I don't believe it, though I hear it out of your own mouth!
There was a minute's pause after this outbreak, during which Harry did
not even look at his brother, but sate, gazing blindly before him, the
picture of grief and gloom. He was driving so near to a road-post that
the carriage might have been upset but for George's pulling the rein.

"You had better take the reins, sir," said Harry. "I told you you had
better take them."

"Did you ever know me fail you, Harry?" George asked.

"No," said the other, "not till now"--the tears were rolling down his
cheeks as he spoke.

"My dear, I think one day you will say I have done my duty."

"What have you done? asked Harry.

"I have said you were a younger brother--that you have spent all your
patrimony, and that your portion at home must be very slender. Is it not
true?"

"Yes, but I would not have believed it, if ten thousand men had told
me," said Harry. "Whatever happened to me, I thought I could trust you,
George Warrington." And in this frame of mind Harry remained during the
rest of the drive.

Their dinner was served soon after their return to their lodgings, of
which Harry scarce ate any, though he drank freely of the wine before
him.

"That wine is a bad consoler in trouble, Harry," his brother remarked.

"I have no other, sir," said Harry, grimly; and having drunk glass after
glass in silence, he presently seized his hat, and left the room.

He did not return for three hours. George, in much anxiety about his
brother, had not left home meanwhile, but read his book, and smoked the
pipe of patience. "It was shabby to say I would not aid him, and,
God help me, it was not true. I won't leave him, though he marries a
blackamoor," thought George "have I not done him harm enough already, by
coming to life again? Where has he gone; has he gone to play?"

"Good God! what has happened to thee?" cried George Warrington,
presently, when his brother came in, looking ghastly pale.

He came up and took his brother's hand. "I can take it now, Georgy,"
he said. "Perhaps what you did was right, though. I for one will never
believe that you would throw your brother off in distress. I'll tell you
what. At dinner, I thought suddenly, I'll go back to her and speak to
her. I'll say to her, 'Maria, poor as I am, your conduct