of the South; and here we have a De Willoughby
whose tastes would be no credit to--to his overseer, a De Willoughby who
has apparently neither the ambition nor the qualification to shine in the
sphere in which he was born! Blow your damned brains out, if you have
any; blow your damned brains out, and let's have an end of the whole
disgraceful business."

This referred specially to Tom's unwillingness to enter upon the study of
medicine, which had been chosen for him.

"I should make a better farmer," he said, bitterly, after a prolonged
discussion. "I'm not the build for women's bedrooms and children's
bedsides. De Courcy would have suited you better."

"De Courcy is a gentleman--a gentleman, sir! He was born one and would
shine in any profession a gentleman may adorn. As for you, this is the
only thing left for you, and you shall try it, by G----!"

"Oh," said Tom, "I'll try it. I can only fail, and I've done that
before."

He did try it forthwith, applying himself to his studies with a
persistence quite creditable. He read lying upon sofas and lounging in
the piazzas, and in course of time was sent to attend lectures in
Philadelphia.

Whether he could have gained his diploma or not was never decided. Those
of the professors who commented on him at all, spoke of him as slow but
persevering, and regarded him rather as a huge receiving machine of
orderly habits. The Judge began to congratulate himself upon his
determination, and his mother thought it "a good thing poor Tom was
disposed of."

But one terrible morning just before the first course of lectures was
completed, he suddenly returned, walking into the Judge's office without
any previous intimation of his intention.

When he turned in his seat and confronted him, the Judge lost his breath.

"You!" he cried; "you!"

"Yes," said Tom, "I've come back." He was rather pale and nervous, but
there was a dogged, resigned look in his eyes. "I've made up my mind," he
added, "that I cannot stand it. Turn me loose on one of your plantations
to--to boss niggers. You said once I was fit for an overseer. Perhaps you
weren't wrong. Say the word and I'll start to-morrow."

The Judge's aquiline countenance turned gray with fury. His fine mustache
seemed to curl itself anew.

"You--you accursed scoundrel!" he gasped. "You accursed, underbred hound!
Tell me what this means, or I'll strangle you."

"You'll say I'm a fool," said Tom, "and I suppose it's true,
and--and