untried gifts, with a heart of infinite
sensibility. Ferdinand Armine was, in truth, a singular blending of the
daring and the soft; and now, as he looked around him and thought of his
illustrious and fallen race, and especially of that extraordinary man,
of whose splendid and ruinous career, that man's own creation, the
surrounding pile, seemed a fitting emblem, he asked himself if he had
not inherited the energies with the name of his grandsire, and if their
exertion might not yet revive the glories of his line. He felt within
him alike the power and the will; and while he indulged in magnificent
reveries of fame and glory and heroic action, of which career, indeed,
his approaching departure was to be the commencement, the association
of ideas led his recollection to those beings from whom he was about to
depart. His fancy dropped like a bird of paradise in full wing, tumbling
exhausted in the sky: he thought of his innocent and happy boyhood,
of his father's thoughtful benevolence, his sweet mother's gentle
assiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion; and he demanded aloud, in a
voice of anguish, whether Fate could indeed supply a lot more exquisite
than to pass existence in these calm and beauteous bowers with such
beloved companions.

His name was called: it was his mother's voice. He dashed away a
desperate tear, and came forth with a smiling face. His mother and
father were walking together at a little distance.

'Ferdinand,' said Lady Armine, with an air of affected gaiety, 'we have
just been settling that you are to send me a gazelle from Malta.' And in
this strain, speaking of slight things, yet all in some degree touching
upon the mournful incident of the morrow, did Lady Armine for some time
converse, as if she were all this time trying the fortitude of her mind,
and accustoming herself to a catastrophe which she was resolved to meet
with fortitude.

While they were walking together, Glastonbury, who was hurrying from his
rooms to the Place, for the dinner hour was at hand, joined them, and
they entered their home together. It was singular at dinner, too, in
what excellent spirits everybody determined to be. The dinner also,
generally a simple repast, was almost as elaborate as the demeanour
of the guests, and, although no one felt inclined to eat, consisted
of every dish and delicacy which was supposed to be a favourite with
Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, in general so grave, was to-day quite joyous,
and produced