crouched at
his feet; Leonard stood beside him.

"So," said Lord L'Estrange, "you would return to London? What to do?"

"Fulfil my fate."

"And that?"

"I cannot guess. Fate is the Isis whose veil no mortal can ever raise."

"You should be born for great things," said Harley, abruptly. "I am sure
that you write well. I have seen that you study with passion. Better
than writing and better than study, you have a noble heart, and the
proud desire of independence. Let me see your manuscripts, or any copies
of what you have already printed. Do not hesitate,--I ask but to be a
reader. I don't pretend to be a patron: it is a word I hate."

Leonard's eyes sparkled through their sudden moisture. He brought out
his portfolio, placed it on the bench beside Harley, and then went
softly to the farther part of the garden. Nero looked after him, and
then rose and followed him slowly. The boy seated himself on the turf,
and Nero rested his dull head on the loud heart of the poet.

Harley took up the various papers before him, and read them through
leisurely. Certainly he was no critic. He was not accustomed to analyze
what pleased or displeased him; but his perceptions were quick, and
his taste exquisite. As he read, his countenance, always so genuinely
expressive, exhibited now doubt and now admiration. He was soon struck
by the contrast, in the boy's writings, between the pieces that sported
with fancy and those that grappled with thought. In the first, the young
poet seemed so unconscious of his own individuality. His imagination,
afar and aloft from the scenes of his suffering, ran riot amidst a
paradise of happy golden creations. But in the last, the THINKER stood
out alone and mournful, questioning, in troubled sorrow, the hard world
on which he gazed. All in the thought was unsettled, tumultuous; all
in the fancy serene and peaceful. The genius seemed divided into twain
shapes,--the one bathing its wings amidst the starry dews of heaven;
the other wandering, "melancholy, slow," amidst desolate and boundless
sands. Harley gently laid down the paper and mused a little while. Then
he rose and walked to Leonard, gazing on his countenance as he neared
the boy, with a new and a deeper interest.

"I have read your papers," he said, "and recognize in them two men,
belonging to two worlds, essentially distinct." Leonard started, and
murmured, "True, true!"

"I apprehend," resumed Harley, "that one of these men must either
dest