unlike my last night's dream! I feel so cold,
too." He stirs the fire, which is burning cheerily, and sits down in the
cushioned chair, the blood flowing from his mouth.

Oswald soon recovers from the hemorrhage, and is aroused from his
languor by the entrance of a fine-looking man whose general appearance
indicates a life of about fifty years.

Seeing the pale face, and noting its strong outlines, yet refined
expression, he stands for a moment in silent admiration.

"How do you feel now?"

"Much better, thank you," is the feeble reply.

Perceiving his guest's weakness, he rings a bell, and upon the prompt
appearance of a servant, gives orders which are soon complied with by
the bringing of refreshments.

Oswald learns that his kind host bears the name of Donald Randolph, and
is the owner of the beautiful country-seat known as "Northfield"; that
he has a family consisting of a son and daughter; that the son is away
on a trip to India, the daughter visiting in London, but expected home
on the following day.

Wishing to know more of the girl, her age, whether single or married,
educated or otherwise, with the numerous further items of information
naturally desired by a young man of twenty-five, about the daughter of
an aristocratic, highly connected, wealthy English gentleman, Oswald,
however, has the tact and good breeding not to demand a "bill of
particulars."

There being a brief pause here, as if both feel that an important though
delicate subject is under consideration, Sir Donald becomes the
inquisitor, learning much about Oswald's past life without asking many
questions. Sir Donald manifests such kindly, unfeigned interest, so much
sympathy with Oswald's plans for the future, heartily approving of his
highest aspirations, that the young man confides unreservedly, and tells
it well.

Oswald's father was the younger son of Herbert Langdon, and for many
years had been rector of an important parish. His parents had placed
Oswald under a tutor, who had prepared him for Oxford. He had finished a
course at this institution, and was taking a pleasure trip on horseback
when the accident befell him. He now aspires to be a barrister, though
until within a few years his secret ambition had been to be a great
military leader. He had read of "St. Crispin," "Balaklava," the "Battle
of the Nile," "Trafalgar," and "Waterloo," but the military spirit is
subservient to that of commerce and diplomacy. With much sage assuran