smile.

'The truth is,' said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating
himself near the table, 'that I slept but ill last night, and was glad
to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and
it is upon that I wish to speak.'

'My dear boy,' returned his father, 'confide in me, I beg. But you know
my constitution--don't be prosy, Ned.'

'I will be plain, and brief,' said Edward.

'Don't say you will, my good fellow,' returned his father, crossing his
legs, 'or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me'--

'Plainly this, then,' said the son, with an air of great concern, 'that
I know where you were last night--from being on the spot, indeed--and
whom you saw, and what your purpose was.'

'You don't say so!' cried his father. 'I am delighted to hear it. It
saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation,
and is a great relief for both. At the very house! Why didn't you come
up? I should have been charmed to see you.'

'I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night's
reflection, when both of us were cool,' returned the son.

''Fore Gad, Ned,' rejoined the father, 'I was cool enough last night.
That detestable Maypole! By some infernal contrivance of the builder,
it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east wind
that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour it was rampant
in that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm.
But you were saying'--

'I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you
have made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment?'

'My dear Ned,' said his father, 'I will hear you with the patience of an
anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.'

'I saw Miss Haredale last night,' Edward resumed, when he had complied
with this request; 'her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your
interview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade
me the house, and, with circumstances of indignity which are of your
creation I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant.'

'For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not
accountable,' said his father. 'That you must excuse. He is a mere boor,
a log, a brute, with no address in life.--Positively a fly in the jug.
The first I have seen this year.'

Edward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped his
tea.

'Father,' said the young man, stopping at