een a great fool.
I don't think I can ever commit such follies again. But I'm a man. I
shall get the better of this; I should despise myself if I could not.
And now let us talk of my dear father. Has he left town?"

"Left last night by the mail. You can write and tell him you have given
up the marchesa, and all will be well again between you."

"Give her up! Fie, Randal! Do you think I should tell such a lie? She
gave me up; I can claim no merit out of that."

"Oh, yes! I can make the squire see all to your advantage. Oh, if it
were only the marchesa! but, alas! that cursed postobit! How could
Levy betray you? Never trust to usurers again; they cannot resist the
temptation of a speedy profit.

"They first buy the son, and then sell him to the father. And the squire
has such strange notions on matters of this kind."

"He is right to have them. There, just read this letter from my mother.
It came to me this morning. I could hang myself if I were a dog; but I'm
a man, and so I must bear it."

Randal took Mrs. Hazeldean's letter from Frank's trembling hand. The
poor mother had learned, though but imperfectly, Frank's misdeeds from
some hurried lines which the squire had despatched to her; and she wrote
as good, indulgent, but sensible, right-minded mothers alone can write.
More lenient to an imprudent love than the squire, she touched with
discreet tenderness on Frank's rash engagements with a foreigner, but
severely on his own open defiance of his father's wishes. Her anger
was, however, reserved for that unholy post-obit. Here the hearty genial
wife's love overcame the mother's affection. To count, in cold blood, on
that husband's death, and to wound his heart so keenly, just where its
jealous, fatherly fondness made it most susceptible!

"O Frank, Frank!" wrote Mrs. Hazeldean, "were it not for this, were
it only for your unfortunate attachment to the Italian lady, only
for your debts, only for the errors of hasty, extravagant youth, I
should be with you now, my arms round your neck, kissing you,
chiding you back to your father's heart. But--but the thought that
between you and his heart has been the sordid calculation of his
death,--that is a wall between us. I cannot come near you. I
should not like to look on your face, and think how my William's
tears fell over it, when I placed you, new born, in his arms, and
bade him welcome his heir. What! you a mere boy still, your father
y