s seldom good sport for
bystanders. I think dull men's faceticae are mostly cruel.

So, if Harry wanted to meet his friend, he had to do so in secret, at
court-houses, taverns, or various places of resort; or in their little
towns, where the provincial gentry assembled. No man of spirit, she
vowed, could meet Mr. Washington after his base desertion of her family.
She was exceedingly excited when she heard that the Colonel and her son
absolutely had met. What a heart must Harry have to give his hand to one
whom she considered as little better than George's murderer! For shame
to say so! For shame upon you, ungrateful boy, forgetting the dearest,
noblest, most perfect of brothers, for that tall, gawky, fox-hunting
Colonel, with his horrid oaths! How can he be George's murderer, when
I say my boy is not dead? He is not dead, because my instinct never
deceived me: because, as sure as I see his picture now before me,--only
'tis not near so noble or so good as he used to look,--so surely two
nights running did my papa appear to me in my dreams. You doubt about
that, very likely? 'Tis because you never loved anybody sufficiently, my
poor Harry; else you might have leave to see them in dreams, as has been
vouchsafed to some."

"I think I loved George, mother," cried Harry. "I have often prayed that
I might dream about him, and I don't."

"How you can talk, sir, of loving George, and then--go and meet your Mr.
Washington at horse-races, I can't understand! Can you, Mountain?"

"We can't understand many things in our neighbours' characters. I can
understand that our boy is unhappy, and that he does not get strength,
and that he is doing no good here, in Castlewood, or moping at the
taverns and court-houses with horse-coupers and idle company," grumbled
Mountain in reply to her patroness; and, in truth, the dependant was
right.

There was not only grief in the Castlewood House, but there was
disunion. "I cannot tell how it came," said Harry, as he brought the
story to an end, which we have narrated in the last two numbers,
and which he confided to his new-found English relative, Madame de
Bernstein; "but since that fatal day of July, last year, and my return
home, my mother never has been the same woman. She seemed to love none
of us as she used. She was for ever praising George, and yet she did
not seem as if she liked him much when he was with us. She hath plunged,
more deeply than ever, into her books of devotion, out of w