you know he has been away in ugly company. For six months past, ever
since the Castlewoods and Madame de Bernstein had been battling for
possession of poor Harry Warrington, these two branches of the Esmond
family had remained apart. Now, the question being settled, they were
free to meet again, as though no difference ever had separated them: and
Madame de Bernstein drove in her great coach to Lady Castlewood's rout,
and the Esmond ladies appeared smiling at Madame de Bernstein's drums,
and loved each other just as much as they previously had done.

"So, sir, I hear you have acted like a hard-hearted monster about your
poor brother Harry!" says the Baroness, delighted, and menacing George
with her stick.

"I acted but upon your ladyship's hint, and desired to see whether it
was for himself or his reputed money that his kinsfolk wanted to have
him," replies George, turning rather red.

"Nay, Maria could not marry a poor fellow who was utterly penniless, and
whose elder brother said he would give him nothing!"

"I did it for the best, madam," says George, still blushing.

"And so thou didst, O thou hypocrite!" cries the old lady.

"Hypocrite, madam! and why?" asks Mr. Warrington, drawing himself up in
much state.

"I know all, my infant!" says the Baroness in French. "Thou art very
like thy grandfather. Come, that I embrace thee! Harry has told me all,
and that thou hast divided thy little patrimony with him!"

"It was but natural, madam. We have had common hearts and purses since
we were born. I but feigned hard-heartedness in order to try those
people yonder," says George, with filling eyes.

"And thou wilt divide Virginia with him too?" asks the Bernstein.

"I don't say so. It were not just," replied Mr. Warrington. "The land
must go to the eldest born, and Harry would not have it otherwise: and
it may be I shall die, or my mother outlive the pair of us. But half of
what is mine is his: and he, it must be remembered, only was extravagant
because he was mistaken as to his position."

"But it is a knight of old, it is a Bayard, it is the grandfather
come to life!" cried Madame de Bernstein to her attendant, as she was
retiring for the night. And that evening, when the lads left her, it was
to poor Harry she gave the two fingers, and to George the rouged cheek,
who blushed, for his part, almost as deep as that often-dyed rose, at
such a mark of his old kinswoman's favour.

Although Harry Warrington was the