o of their brothers in the choir. There were three
sons, Romaine, De Courcy, and Thomas. But Thomas did not sing in the
choir. Thomas, alas! did not sing at all. Thomas, it was universally
conceded by every De Willoughby of the clan, was a dismal failure. Even
from his earliest boyhood, when he had been a huge, overgrown fellow,
whose only redeeming qualities were his imperturbable good-humor and his
ponderous wit, his family had regarded him with a sense of despair. In
the first place, he was too big. His brothers were tall, lithe-limbed
youths, who were graceful, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and had a general air
of brilliancy. They figured well at college and in their world; they sang
and danced in a manner which, combining itself with the name of De
Willoughby, gave them quite an ennobled sort of distinction, a touch of
patrician bravado added to their picturesqueness in the eyes of the
admiring; and their little indiscretions were of a nature to be ignored
or treated with gentle consideration as the natural result of their
youth, spirit, and Southern blood. But at nineteen Thomas had attained a
height of six feet five, with a proportionate breadth and ponderousness.
His hands and feet were a disgrace to a De Willoughby, and his voice was
a roar when he was influenced by anything like emotion. Displays of
emotion, however, were but rare occurrences with him. He was too lazy to
be roused to anger or any other violent feeling. He spent his leisure
hours in lying upon sofas or chairs and getting very much in everybody's
way. He lounged through school and college without the slightest _eclat_
attending his progress.

It became the pastime of the household to make rather a butt of him, and
for the most part he bore himself under the difficulties of his position
peaceably enough, though there had been times when his weighty retorts
had caused some sharp wincing.

"You're an ill-natured devil, Tom," his brother De Courcy said to him, as
he stood fingering the ornaments on the mantel after one such encounter.
"You're an ill-natured devil."

Tom was stretched on a sofa, with his big hands under his head, and did
not condescend to look around.

"I'm not such a thundering fool as you take me for, that's all," he
answered. "I've got my eyes open. Keep to your side of the street, and I
will keep to mine."

It was true that he had his eyes open and had more wit and feeling than
they gave him credit for. No one understood him, not