er either," said Harcourt, irritated at the
acknowledgment.

"Certainly not," chimed in Upton, with another smile.

"Nor have I any wish to be one or the other," rejoined Harcourt,
now really provoked. "I know right well that if I were in trouble or
difficulty to-morrow,--if I wanted a friend to help me with a loan of
some thousand pounds,--it is not to a genius or a philosopher I 'd look
for the assistance."

It is ever a chance shot that explodes a magazine, and so is it that a
random speech is sure to hit the mark that has escaped all the efforts
of skilful direction.

Upton winced and grew pale at these last words, and he fixed his
penetrating gray eyes upon the speaker with a keenness all his own.
Harcourt, however, bore the look without the slightest touch of
uneasiness. The honest Colonel had spoken without any hidden meaning,
nor had he the slightest intention of a personal application in his
words. Of this fact Upton appeared soon to be convinced, for his
features gradually recovered their wonted calmness.

"How perfectly right you are, my dear Harcourt," said he, mildly. "The
man who expects to be happier by the possession of genius is like one
who would like to warm himself through a burning-glass."

"Egad, that is a great consolation for us slow fellows," said Harcourt,
laughing; "and now what say you to a game at _ecarte_; for I believe it
is just the one solitary thing I am more than your match in?"

"I accept inferiority in a great many others," said Upton, blandly; "but
I must decline the challenge, for I have a letter to write, and our post
here starts at daybreak."

"Well, I'd rather carry the whole bag than indite one of its contents,"
said the Colonel, rising; and, with a hearty shake of the hand, he left
the room.

A letter was fortunately not so great an infliction to Upton, who opened
his desk at once, and with a rapid hand traced the following lines:--

Mv dear Princess,--My last will have told you how and when I came here;
I wish I but knew in what way to explain why I still remain! Imagine
the dreariest desolation of Calabria in a climate of fog and sea-drift:
sunless skies, leafless trees, impassable roads, the out-door comforts;
the joys within depending on a gloomy old house, with a few gloomier
inmates, and a host on a sick bed. Yet, with all this, I believe I am
better; the doctor, a strange, unsophisticated creature, a cross between
Galen and Caliban, seems to have hit off wha