ould like much to hear what you would advise for him," said Upton.

"He's so full of promise," said Billy, "that whatever he takes to he 'll
be sure to fancy he 'd be better at something else. See, now,--it isn 't
a bull I 'm sayin', but I 'll make a blunder of it if I try to explain."

"Go on; I think I apprehend you."

"By coorse you do. Well, it's that same feelin' makes me cautious
of sayin' what he ought to do. For, after all, a variety of capacity
implies discursiveness, and discursiveness is the mother of failure."

"You speak like an oracle, Doctor."

"If I do, it's because the priest is beside me," said Billy, howmg. "My
notion is this: I'd let him cultivate his fine gifts for a year or two
in any way he liked,--in work or idleness; for they 'll grow in the
fallow as well as in the tilled land. I 'd let him be whatever he
liked,--striving always, as he's sure to be striving, after something
higher, and greater, and better than he'll ever reach; and then, when he
has felt both his strength and his weakness, I 'd try and attach him to
some great man in public life; set a grand ambition before him, and say,
'Go on.'"

"He's scarcely the stuff for public life," muttered Sir Horace.

"He is," said Billy, boldly.

"He 'd be easily abashed,--easily deterred by failure."

"Sorra bit. Success might cloy, but failure would never damp him."

"I can't fancy him a speaker."

"Rouse him by a strong theme and a flat contradiction, and you 'll see
what he can do."

"And then his lounging, idle habits--"

"He'll do more in two hours than any one else in two days."

"You are a warm admirer, my dear Doctor," said Sir Horace, smiling
blandly. "I should almost rather have such a friend than the qualities
that win the friendship.--Have you a message for me, Antoine?" said
he to a servant who stood at a little distance, waiting the order to
approach. The man came forward, and whispered a few words. Sir Horace's
cheek gave a faint, the very faintest possible, sign of flush as he
listened, and uttering a brief "Very well," dismissed the messenger.

"Will you give me your arm, Doctor?" said he, languidly; and the elegant
Sir Horace Upton passed down the crowded promenade, leaning on his
uncouth companion, without the slightest consciousness of the surprise
and sarcasm around him. No man more thoroughly could appreciate
conventionalities; he would weigh the effect of appearances to the
veriest nicety; but in practice he