full of promise, of modesty, yet
of pride. And his countenance--oh, Egerton, he has her eyes."

Egerton made no answer, and Harley resumed,

"I had thought of placing him under your care. I knew you would provide
for him."

"I will. Bring him hither," cried Egerton, eagerly. "All that I can do
to prove my--regard for a wish of yours." Harley pressed his friend's
hand warmly.

"I thank you from my heart; the Audley of my boyhood speaks now. But the
young man has decided otherwise; and I do not blame him. Nay, I rejoice
that he chooses a career in which, if he find hardship, he may escape
dependence."

"And that career is--"

"Letters."

"Letters! Literature!" exclaimed the statesman. "Beggary! No, no,
Harley, this is your absurd romance."

"It will not be beggary, and it is not my romance: it is the boy's.
Leave him alone, he is my care and my charge henceforth. He is of her
blood, and I said that he had HER eyes."

"But you are going abroad; let me know where he is; I will watch over
him."

"And unsettle a right ambition for a wrong one? No, you shall know
nothing of him till he can proclaim himself. I think that day will
come."

Audley mused a moment, and then said, "Well, perhaps you are right.
After all, as you say, independence is a great blessing, and my ambition
has not rendered myself the better or the happier."

"Yet, my poor Audley, you ask me to be ambitious."

"I only wish you to be consoled," cried Egerton, with passion.

"I will try to be so; and by the help of a milder remedy than yours.
I said that my adventure might influence my future; it brought me
acquainted not only with the young man I speak of, but the most winning,
affectionate child,--a girl."

"Is this child an Avenel too?"

"No, she is of gentle blood,--a soldier's daughter; the daughter of that
Captain Digby on whose behalf I was a petitioner to your patronage. He
is dead, and in dying, my name was on his lips. He meant me, doubtless,
to be the guardian to his orphan. I shall be so. I have at last an
object in life."

"But can you seriously mean to take this child with you abroad?"

"Seriously, I do."

"And lodge her in your own house?"

"For a year or so, while she is yet a child. Then, as she approaches
youth, I shall place her elsewhere."

"You may grow to love her. Is it clear that she will love you,--not
mistake gratitude for love? It is a very hazardous experiment."

"So was William the Norman's,--still he