und affixed to the wall in
every room in the East, and the son was half holding, half caressing
his father's arm. Sir Lionel, to tell the truth, did not much care
for such caresses, but under the peculiar circumstances of this
present interview he permitted it.

"You see, I'm always in odd places, George."

"You've been in Jerusalem before?"

"No, never. It's not on the road anywhere, or on any road at all, as
one may well see. I never knew such a place to get to. Now there are
roads of some sort even about Bagdad."

"And Damascus?"

"Oh, Damascus is a highway; but nobody comes to Jerusalem except the
pilgrims, and those who like to look after the pilgrims. We are just
in the thick of them now, I believe."

"Yes, sir. There are thirteen thousand here. I am sure you'll like
the place. I am delighted with it, although I have been here as yet
only two days."

"Perhaps more so than you will be when you have been ten."

"I don't think it. But it is not the city itself."

"No; that seems poor and dirty enough."

"I would not mind the dirt if the place were but true." Sir Lionel
did not quite understand him, but he said nothing. "It is the country
round, the immediate vicinity of Jerusalem that fascinates so
wonderfully."

"Ah! the scenery is good, is it?"

"Well, in one way it is; but I do not mean that. I cannot explain it;
but to-morrow you will go to the Mount of Olives with me."

"Mount of Olives, eh? I'm not very good at climbing up a hill, Master
George; you must remember the difference between twenty-three and
sixty-three. What is there to see there?"

What was there to see there! This was said in a tone which made
George feel rather indisposed to describe, if describe he could, what
there was there to be seen. He had quite wit enough to perceive that
his father was not enthusiastic about Bible history.

And then they changed the conversation, and began to talk about
George Bertram the elder.

"It's eighteen years since I've seen my brother," said Sir Lionel.
"He was usually cross enough then. I suppose he has hardly improved?"

"I can't exactly call him cross. He has been very kind to me, you
know."

"Kind--well. If you are contented, I am; but, considering that you
are his natural heir, I don't think he has done so very much. If he
means to be kind, why does he bother me every other month with a long
account, of which the postage comes to heaven knows how much?"

"Ah! but, sir, I am not his