and a hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned, and
Arthur Beaufort, who had followed him from the street, stood behind him.
Philip did not, at the first glance, recognise his cousin; illness had
so altered him, and his dress was so different from that in which he had
first and last beheld him. The contrast between the two young men
was remarkable. Philip was clad in a rough garb suited to his late
calling--a jacket of black velveteen, ill-fitting and ill-fashioned,
loose fustian trousers, coarse shoes, his hat set deep over his pent
eyebrows, his raven hair long and neglected. He was just at that age
when one with strong features and robust frame is at the worst in point
of appearance--the sinewy proportions not yet sufficiently fleshed, and
seeming inharmonious and undeveloped; precisely in proportion, perhaps,
to the symmetry towards which they insensibly mature: the contour of
the face sharpened from the roundness of boyhood, and losing its bloom
without yet acquiring that relief and shadow which make the expression
and dignity of the masculine countenance. Thus accoutred, thus gaunt,
and uncouth, stood Morton. Arthur Beaufort, always refined in his
appearance, seemed yet more so from the almost feminine delicacy which
ill-health threw over his pale complexion and graceful figure; that sort
of unconscious elegance which belongs to the dress of the rich when
they are young--seen most in minutiae--not observable, perhaps, by
themselves-marked forcibly and painfully the distinction of rank between
the two. That distinction Beaufort did not feel; but at a glance it was
visible to Philip.

The past rushed back on him. The sunny lawn-the gun offered and
rejected-the pride of old, much less haughty than the pride of to-day.

"Philip," said Beaufort, feebly, "they tell me you will not accept any
kindness from me or mine. Ah! if you knew how we have sought you!"

"Knew!" cried Philip, savagely, for that unlucky sentence recalled to
him his late interview with his employer, and his present destitution.
"Knew! And why have you dared to hunt me out, and halloo me down?--why
must this insolent tyranny, that assumes the right over these limbs
and this free will, betray and expose me and my wretchedness wherever I
turn?"

"Your poor mother--" began Beaufort.

"Name her not with your lips--name her not!" cried Philip, growing livid
with his emotions. "Talk not of the mercy--the forethought--a Beaufort
could show to leer and h