elt the awkwardness of saying that they had not been
invited, and muttered something not very intelligible about the
uncertainty of the weather.

"I meant to have gone over myself," said Bramleigh, hurriedly; "but all
these,"--and he swept his hand, as he spoke, through a mass of letters
on the table,--"all these have come since morning, and I am not half
through them yet. What 's that the moralist says about calling no man
happy till he dies? I often think one cannot speculate upon a pleasant
day till after the post-hour."

"I know very little of either the pains or pleasures of the letter-bag.
I have almost no correspondence."

"How I envy you!" cried he, fervently.

"I don't imagine that mine is a lot many would be found to envy," said
L'Estrange, with a gentle smile.

"The old story, of course. 'Qui fit, Maecenas, ut Nemo'--I forget my
Horace--'ut Nemo; how does it go?"

"Yes, sir. But I never said I was discontented with my lot in my life. I
only remarked that I did n't think that others would envy it."

"I have it,--I have it," continued Bramleigh, following out his
own train of thought,--"I have it. 'Ut Nemo, quam sibi sortem sit
coutentus.' It's a matter of thirty odd years since I saw that passage,
L'Estrange, and I can't imagine what could have brought it so forcibly
before me to-day."

"Certainly it could not have been any application to yourself," said
the curate, politely.

"How do you mean, sir?" cried Bramleigh, almost fiercely. "How do you
mean?"

"I mean, sir, that few men have less cause for discontent with
fortune."

"How can _you_--how can any man, presume to say that of another!" said
Bramleigh, in a loud and defiant tone, as he arose and paced the room.
"Who can tell what passes in his neighbor's house, still less in his
heart or his head? What do I know, as I listen to your discourse on a
Sunday, of the terrible conflict of doubts that have beset you during
the week--heresies that have swarmed around you like the vipers and
hideous reptiles that gathered around St. Anthony, and that, banished in
one shape, came back in another? How do I know what compromises you
may have made with your conscience before you come to utter to me your
eternal truths; and how you may have said, 'If he can believe all this,
so much the better for him'--eh?"

He turned fiercely round, as if to demand an answer; and the curate
modestly said, "I hope it is not so that men preach the gospel."

"And yet ma