ated tyrannically.

"Grandmama has good taste in tutors," was all that she said while the
thoughts rolled over.

CHAPTER IV. RECOGNITION

Our applicant for the post of secretary entered the street of Lord
Ormont's London house, to present himself to his boyhood's hero by
appointment.

He was to see, perhaps to serve, the great soldier. Things had come to
this; and he thought it singular. But for the previous introduction to
Lady Charlotte, he would have thought it passing wonderful. He ascribed
it to the whirligig.

The young man was not yet of an age to gather knowledge of himself
and of life from his present experience of the fact, that passionate
devotion to an object strikes a vein through circumstances, as a
travelling run of flame darts the seeming haphazard zigzags to catch
at the dry of dead wood amid the damp; and when passion has become
quiescent in the admirer, there is often the unsubsided first impulsion
carrying it on. He will almost sorely embrace his idol with one or other
of the senses.

Weyburn still read the world as it came to him, by bite, marvelling at
this and that, after the fashion of most of us. He had not deserted his
adolescent's hero, or fallen upon analysis of a past season. But he was
now a young man, stoutly and cognizantly on the climb, with a good aim
overhead, axed green youth's enthusiasms a step below his heels: one
of the lovers of life, beautiful to behold, when we spy into them;
generally their aspect is an enlivenment, whatever may be the carving
of their features. For the sake of holy unity, this lover of life,
whose gaze was to the front in hungry animation, held fast to his young
dreams, perceiving a soul of meaning in them, though the fire might have
gone out; and he confessed to a past pursuit of delusions. Young men of
this kind will have, for the like reason, a similar rational sentiment
on behalf of our world's historic forward march, while admitting that
history has to be taken from far backward if we would gain assurance of
man's advance. It nerves an admonished ambition.

He was ushered into a London house's library, looking over a niggard
enclosure of gravel and dull grass, against a wall where ivy dribbled.
An armchair was beside the fireplace. To right and left of it a floreate
company of books in high cases paraded shoulder to shoulder, without
a gap; grenadiers on the line. Weyburn read the titles on their
scarlet-and-blue facings. They were approve