pect that your talents will never secure your fortune. A
carpenter's son beats you in public speaking, and a vulgar mill-owner
tricks you in private negotiation. Decidedly, as yet, Randal Leslie, you
are--a failure. And, as you so admirably said, 'a man from whom we have
nothing to hope or fear we must blot out of the map of the future.'"

Randal's answer was cut short by the appearance of the groom of the
chambers.

"My Lord is in the saloon, and requests you and Mr. Leslie will do him
the honour to join him there." The two gentlemen followed the servant up
the broad stairs.

The saloon formed the centre room of the suite of apartments. From its
size, it was rarely used save on state occasions. It had the chilly and
formal aspect of rooms reserved for ceremony.

Riccabocca, Violante, Helen, Mr. Dale, Squire Hazeldean, and Lord
L'Estrange were grouped together by the cold Florentine marble table,
not littered with books and female work, and the endearing signs of
habitation, that give a living smile to the face of home; nothing
thereon save a great silver candelabrum, that scarcely lighted the
spacious room, and brought out the portraits on the walls as a part of
the assembly, looking, as portraits do look, with searching, curious
eyes upon every eye that turns to them.

But as soon as Randal entered, the squire detached himself from the
group, and, coming to the defeated candidate, shook hands with him
heartily.

"Cheer up, my boy; 't is no shame to be beaten. Lord L'Estrange says you
did your best to win, and man can do no more. And I'm glad, Leslie, that
we don't meet for our little business till the election is over; for,
after annoyance, something pleasant is twice as acceptable. I've the
money in my pocket. Hush! and I say, my dear, dear boy, I cannot find
out where Frank is, but it is really all off with that foreign woman,
eh?"

"Yes, indeed, sir, I hope so. I'll talk to you about it when we can be
alone. We may slip away presently, I trust."

"I'll tell you a secret scheme of mine and Harry's," said the squire, in
a still low whisper. "We, must drive that marchioness, or whatever
she is, out of the boy's head, and put a pretty English girl into it
instead. That will settle him in life too. And I must try and swallow
that bitter pill of the post-obit. Harry makes worse of it than I do,
and is so hard on the poor fellow that I've been obliged to take his
part. I've no idea of being under petticoat gover