oon as George
had entered, his uncle stopped his walk, and bade him shut the door.

"George," said he, "perhaps you are not very often right, either in
what you do or what you say; but last night you were right."

"Sir!"

"Yes, last night you were right. Whatever may have been your father's
conduct, you were right to defend it; and, bad as it has been, I was
wrong to speak of it as it deserved before you. I will not do so
again."

"Thank you, sir," said George, his eyes almost full of tears.

"That is what I suppose the people in the army call an ample apology.
Perhaps, however, it may be made a little more ample."

"Sir, sir," said George, not quite understanding him; "pray do not
say anything more."

"No, I won't, for I have got nothing more to say; only this:
Pritchett wants to see you. Be with him at three o'clock to-day."

At three o'clock Bertram was with Pritchett, and learned from that
gentleman, in the most frozen tone of which he was capable, and with
sundry little, good-humoured, asthmatic chuckles, that he had been
desired to make arrangements for paying to Mr. George regularly an
income of two hundred a year, to be paid in the way of annuity till
Mr. Bertram's death, and to be represented by an adequate sum in the
funds whenever that much-to-be-lamented event should take place.

"To be sure, sir," said Pritchett, "two hundred a year is nothing for
you, Mr. George; but--"

But two hundred a year was a great deal to George. That morning he
had been very much puzzled to think how he was to keep himself going
till he might be able to open the small end of the law's golden eggs.

CHAPTER XIII.

LITTLEBATH.

I abhor a mystery. I would fain, were it possible, have my tale run
through from its little prologue to the customary marriage in its
last chapter, with all the smoothness incidental to ordinary life. I
have no ambition to surprise my reader. Castles with unknown passages
are not compatible with my homely muse. I would as lief have to do
with a giant in my book--a real giant, such as Goliath--as with a
murdering monk with a scowling eye. The age for such delights is, I
think, gone. We may say historically of Mrs. Radcliffe's time that
there were mysterious sorrows in those days. They are now as much out
of date as are the giants.

I would wish that a serene gratification might flow from my pages,
unsullied by a single start. Now I am aware that there is that in
the last chapter whic