some day get blows instead of blandishments--kicks instead of kisses;
then for the fit of mute fury which will sicken his body and madden
his soul; then for the ordeal of merited and salutary suffering, out of
which he will come (I trust) a wiser and a better man.

I see him now; he stands by Hunsden, who is seated on the lawn under the
beech; Hunsden's hand rests on the boy's collar, and he is instilling
God knows what principles into his ear. Victor looks well just now, for
he listens with a sort of smiling interest; he never looks so like his
mother as when he smiles--pity the sunshine breaks out so rarely! Victor
has a preference for Hunsden, full as strong as I deem desirable, being
considerably more potent decided, and indiscriminating, than any I ever
entertained for that personage myself. Frances, too, regards it with a
sort of unexpressed anxiety; while her son leans on Hunsden's knee, or
rests against his shoulder, she roves with restless movement round,
like a dove guarding its young from a hovering hawk; she says she wishes
Hunsden had children of his own, for then he would better know the
danger of inciting their pride end indulging their foibles.

Frances approaches my library window; puts aside the honeysuckle which
half covers it, and tells me tea is ready; seeing that I continue busy
she enters the room, comes near me quietly, and puts her hand on my
shoulder.

"Monsieur est trop applique."

"I shall soon have done."

She draws a chair near, and sits down to wait till I have finished; her
presence is as pleasant to my mind as the perfume of the fresh hay and
spicy flowers, as the glow of the westering sun, as the repose of the
midsummer eve are to my senses.

But Hunsden comes; I hear his step, and there he is, bending through the
lattice, from which he has thrust away the woodbine with unsparing hand,
disturbing two bees and a butterfly.

"Crimsworth! I say, Crimsworth! take that pen out of his hand, mistress,
and make him lift up his head.

"Well, Hunsden? I hear you--"

"I was at X---- yesterday! your brother Ned is getting richer than
Croesus by railway speculations; they call him in the Piece Hall a stag
of ten; and I have heard from Brown. M. and Madame Vandenhuten and Jean
Baptiste talk of coming to see you next month. He mentions the Pelets
too; he says their domestic harmony is not the finest in the world, but
in business they are doing 'on ne peut mieux,' which circumstance
he concl