its burden. Here, then, was a man who had no burden. He was
snoring with almost harmonious cadence,--slowly, discreetly,--one
might say, artistically, quite like a gentleman; and the man who so
snored could not but be happy. "Oh, d----n it!" said Gilmore, in a
private whisper, getting up and leaving the room; but there was more
of envy than of anger in the exclamation.

"Ah! you've been out," said Mr. Chamberlaine, when his nephew
returned.

"Been to look at the horses made up."

"I never can see the use of that; but I believe a great many men
do it. I suppose it's an excuse for smoking generally." Now, Mr.
Chamberlaine did not smoke.

"Well; I did light my pipe."

"There's not the slightest necessity for telling me so, Harry. Let us
see if Mrs. Bunker's tea is better than her coffee." Then the bell
was rung, and Mr. Chamberlaine desired that he might have a cup of
black tea, not strong, but made with a good deal of tea, and poured
out rapidly, without much decoction. "If it be strong and harsh I
can't sleep a wink," he said. The tea was brought, and sipped very
leisurely. There was then a word or two said about certain German
baths from which Mr. Chamberlaine had just returned; and Mr. Gilmore
began to believe that he should not be asked to say anything about
Mary Lowther that night.

But the Fates were not so kind. The Prebendary had arisen with the
intention of retiring for the night, and was already standing before
the fire, with his bedroom candle in his hand, when something,--the
happiness probably of his own position in life, which allowed him to
seek the blessings of an undivided couch,--brought to his memory the
fact that his nephew had spoken to him about some young woman, some
young woman who had possessed not even the merit of a dowry.

"By the bye," said he, "what has become of that flame of yours,
Harry?" Harry Gilmore became black and glum. He did not like to hear
Mary spoken of as a flame. He was standing at this moment with his
back to his uncle, and so remained, without answering him. "Do you
mean to say that you did not ask her, after all?" asked the uncle.
"If there be any scrape, Harry, you had better let me hear it."

"I don't know what you call a scrape," said Harry. "She's not going
to marry me."

"Thank God, my boy!" Gilmore turned round, but his uncle did
not probably see his face. "I can assure you," continued Mr.
Chamberlaine, "that the idea made me quite uncomfortable. I set some