ny a young fellow has had to go on parade in
the morning, with a headache earned overnight. Drink this water. Now,
jump up. Now, dash the water well over your head. There you come! Make
your toilette quickly; and let us be off, and find cousin Barnes before
he has left home."

Clive obeyed the paternal orders; dressed himself quickly; and
descending, found his father smoking his morning cigar in the apartment
where they had dined the night before, and where the tables still were
covered with the relics of yesterday's feast--the emptied bottles, the
blank lamps, the scattered ashes and fruits, the wretched heel-taps
that have been lying exposed all night to the air. Who does not know the
aspect of an expired feast?

"The field of action strewed with the dead, my boy," says Clive's
father. "See, here's the glass on the floor yet, and a great stain of
claret on the carpet."

"Oh, father!" says Clive, hanging his head down, "I know I shouldn't
have done it. But Barnes Newcome would provoke the patience of Job; and
I couldn't bear to have my father insulted."

"I am big enough to fight my own battles, my boy," the Colonel said
good-naturedly, putting his hand on the lad's damp head. "How your head
throbs! If Barnes laughed at my singing, depend upon it, sir, there was
something ridiculous in it, and he laughed because he could not help it.
If he behaved ill, we should not; and to a man who is eating our salt
too, and is of our blood."

"He is ashamed of our blood, father," cries Clive, still indignant.

"We ought to be ashamed of doing wrong. We must go and ask his pardon.
Once when I was a young man in India," the father continued very
gravely, "some hot words passed at mess--not such an insult as that
of last night; I don't think I could have quite borne that--and people
found fault with me for forgiving the youngster who had uttered the
offensive expressions over his wine. Some of my acquaintance sneered at
my courage, and that is a hard imputation for a young fellow of spirit
to bear. But providentially, you see, it was war-time, and very soon
after I had the good luck to show that I was not a poule mouillee, as
the French call it; and the man who insulted me, and whom I forgave,
became my fastest friend, and died by my side--it was poor Jack
Cutler--at Argaum. We must go and ask Barnes Newcome's pardon, sir, and
forgive other people's trespasses, my boy, if we hope forgiveness of
our own." His voice sank down as