eek. When a year had thus passed away, the happiest year yet
in Lord Cadurcis' life, in spite of all his disadvantages, he had
contrived to make no inconsiderable progress. Almost deprived of a
tutor, he had advanced in classical acquirement more than during the
whole of his preceding years of scholarship, while his handwriting
began to become intelligible, he could read French with comparative
facility, and had turned over many a volume in the well-stored library
at Cherbury.

CHAPTER VIII.

When the hours of study were past, the children, with that zest for
play which occupation can alone secure, would go forth together, and
wander in the park. Here they had made a little world for themselves,
of which no one dreamed; for Venetia had poured forth all her Arcadian
lore into the ear of Plantagenet; and they acted together many of
the adventures of the romance, under the fond names of Musidorus and
Philoclea. Cherbury was Arcadia, and Cadurcis Macedon; while the
intervening woods figured as the forests of Thessaly, and the breezy
downs were the heights of Pindus. Unwearied was the innocent sport
of their virgin imaginations; and it was a great treat if Venetia,
attended by Mistress Pauncefort, were permitted to accompany
Plantagenet some way on his return. Then they parted with an embrace
in the woods of Thessaly, and Musidorus strolled home with a heavy
heart to his Macedonian realm.

Parted from Venetia, the magic suddenly seemed to cease, and Musidorus
was instantly transformed into the little Lord Cadurcis, exhausted by
the unconscious efforts of his fancy, depressed by the separation from
his sweet companion, and shrinking from the unpoetical reception which
at the best awaited him in his ungenial home. Often, when thus alone,
would he loiter on his way and seat himself on the ridge, and watch
the setting sun, as its dying glory illumined the turrets of his
ancient house, and burnished the waters of the lake, until the tears
stole down his cheek; and yet he knew not why. No thoughts of sorrow
had flitted through his mind, nor indeed had ideas of any description
occurred to him. It was a trance of unmeaning abstraction; all that he
felt was a mystical pleasure in watching the sunset, and a conviction
that, if he were not with Venetia, that which he loved next best, was
to be alone.

The little Cadurcis in general returned home moody and silent, and
his mother too often, irritated by his demeanour, indulg