ubtless there is some pleasure in making even a gray cat happy!

Clarence having patiently undergone all the shrugs, and sighs, and
exclamations of compassion at his reduced and wan appearance, which are
the especial prerogatives of ancient domestics, followed the old man
into the room. Papers and books, though carefully dusted, were left
scrupulously in the places in which Talbot had last deposited them
(incomparable good fortune! what would we not give for such chamber
handmaidens!); fresh flowers were in all the stands and vases; the large
library chair was jealously set in its accustomed place, and all
wore, to Talbot's eyes, that cheerful yet sober look of welcome and
familiarity which makes a friend of our house. The old man was in high
spirits.

"I know not how it is," said he, "but I feel younger than ever! You
have often expressed a wish to see my family seat at Scarsdale: it
is certainly a great distance hence; but as you will be my travelling
companion, I think I will try and crawl there before the summer is over;
or, what say you, Clarence, shall I lend it to you and Lady Flora for
the honeymoon? You blush! A diplomatist blush! Ah, how the world has
changed since my time! But come, Clarence, suppose you write to La
Meronville?"

"Not to-day, sir, if you please," said Linden: "I feel so very weak."

"As you please, Clarence; but some years hence you will learn the value
of the present. Youth is always a procrastinator, and, consequently,
always a penitent." And thus Talbot ran on into a strain of
conversation, half serious, half gay, which lasted till Clarence went
upstairs to lie down and muse on Lady Flora Ardenne.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

La vie eat un sommeil. Les vieillards sont ceux donc le
sommeil a ete plus long: ils ne commencent a se reveiller
que quand il faut mourir. --LA BRUYERE.

["Life is a sleep. The aged are those whose sleep has been
the longest they begin to awaken themselves just as they are
obliged to die."]

"You wonder why I have never turned author, with my constant love
of literature and my former desire of fame," said Talbot, as he and
Clarence sat alone after dinner, discussing many things: "the fact is,
that I have often intended it, and as often been frightened from
my design. Those terrible feuds; those vehement disputes; those
recriminations of abuse, so inseparable from literary life,--appear to
me too dreadful for a man not utterly harden