There was a very dull dinner at Ranford that day. Lord Ascot scarcely spoke a word; he was kind and polite — he always was that — but he was very different from his usual self. The party missed his jokes; which, though feeble and sometimes possibly “rather close to the wind,” served their purpose, served to show that the maker of them was desirous to make himself agreeable to the best of his ability. He never laughed once during dinner, which was very unusual. It was evident that Lord Saltire had performed his commission, and Charles was afraid that he was furiously angry with Welter; but, on one occasion, when the latter looked up suddenly and asked him some question, his father answered him kindly in his usual tone of voice, and spoke to him so for some time.

Lady Ascot was a host in herself. With a noble self-sacrifice, she, at the risk of being laughed at, resolved to attract attention by airing some of her most remarkable opinions. She accordingly attacked Lord Saltire on the subject of the end of the world, putting its total destruction by fire at about nine months from that time. Lord Saltire had no opinion to offer on the probability of Dr. Going’s theory, but sincerely hoped that it might last his time, and that he might he allowed to get out of the way in the ordinary manner. He did not for a moment doubt the correctness of her calculations; but he put it to her as a woman of the world, whether or no such an occurrence as she described would not be in the last degree awkward and disconcerting?

Adelaide said she didn’t believe a word of it, and nothing should induce her to do so until it took place. This brought the old lady’s wrath down upon her and helped the nagging conversation on a little. But, after dinner, it got so dull in spite of every one’s efforts, that Lord Sal tire confided to his young friend, as they went upstairs, that he had an idea that something was wrong; but at all events, that the house was getting so insufferably dull that he must rat, pardieu, for he couldn’t stand it. He should rat into Devon to his friend Lord Begur.

Welter took occasion to tell Charles that Lord Ascot had sent for him, and told him that he knew all about what had happened, and his debts. That he did not wish the subject mentioned (as if I were likely to talk about it!); that his debts should, if possible, be paid. That he had then gone on to say, that he did not wish to say anything harsh to Welter on the subject — that he doubted whether he retained the right of reproving his son. That they both needed forgiveness one from the other, and that he hoped in what was to follow they would display that courtesy and mutual forbearance to ne another which gentlemen should. “And what the deuce does he mean, eh? He never spoke like this before. Is he going to marry again? Ay, that’s what it is, depend upon it,” said this penetrating young gentleman; “ that will be rather a shame of 1dm, you know, particularly if he has two or three cubs to cut into my fortune;” and so from that time Lord Welter began to treat his father with a slight coolness, and an air of injured innocence most amusing, though painful, to Charles and Adelaide, who knew the truth.

As for Adelaide, she seemed to treat Charles like a brother once more. She kept no secret from him; she walked with him, rode with him, just as of old. She did not seem to like Lord Welter’s society, though she was very kind to him; and he seemed too much taken up with his dogs and horses to care much for her. So Charles and she were thrown together, and Charles’s love for her grew stronger day by day, until that studied indifferent air which he had assumed on his arrival became almost impossible to sustain. He sustained it, nevertheless, treating Adelaide almost with rudeness, and flinging about his words so carelessly, that sometimes she would look suddenly up indignant, and make some passionate reply, and sometimes she would rise and leave the room — for aught I know, in tears.

It was a sad house to stay in; and his heart began to yearn for his western home in spite of Adelaide. After a short time came a long letter from his father, a scolding loving letter, in which Densil showed plainly that he as trying to be angry, and could not, for joy at having his son home with him — and concluded by saying that he should never allude to the circumstance again, and by praying him to come back at once from that wicked, cock-fighting, horse-racing, Ranford. There was an inclosure for Lord Saltire, the reading of which caused his lordship to take a great deal of snuff, in which he begged him, for old friendship’s sake, to send his boy home to him, as he had once sent him home to his father. And so Lord Saltire appeared in Charles’s dressing-room before dinner one day, and, sitting down, said that he was come to take a great liberty, and, in fact, was rather presuming on his being an old man, but he hoped that his young friend would not take it amiss from a man old enough to be his grandfather, if he recommended him to leave that house, and go home to his father’s. Ranford was a most desirable house in every way; but, at the same time, it was what he believed the young men of the day called a fast house; and he would not conceal from his young friend that his father had requested him to use his influence to make him return home; and he did beg his old friend’s son to believe that he was actuated by the best of motives.

“Dear Lord Saltire,” said Charles, taking the old man’s hand; “I am going home tomorrow; and you don’t know how heartily I thank you for the interest you always take in me.”

“I know nothing,” said Lord Saltire, “more pleasing to a battered old fellow like myself than to contemplate he ingenuousness of youth, and you must allow me to gay that your ingenuousness sits uncommonly well upon you — in fact, is very becoming. I conceived a considerable interest in you the first time I saw you, on that very account. I should like to have had a son like you, but it was not to be. I had a son, who was all that could be desired by the most fastidious person, brought up in a far better school than mine; but he got shot in his first duel, at one-and-twenty. I remember to have been considerably annoyed at the time,” continued the old gentleman, taking a pinch of snuff, and looking steadily at Charles without moving a muscle, “but I flare say it was all for the best; he might have run in debt, or married a woman with red hair, or fifty things. Well, I wish you good day, and beg your forgiveness once more for the liberty I have taken.”

Charles slipped away from the dinner-table early that evening, and, while Lady Ascot was having her after-dinner nap, had a long conversation with Adelaide in the dark, which was very pleasant to one of the parties concerned, at any rate.

“Adelaide, I am going home tomorrow.”

“Are you really? Are you going so suddenly?”

“I am, positively. I got a letter from home today. Are you very sorry or very glad?”

“I am very sorry, Charles. You are the only friend I have in the world to whom I can speak as I like. Make me a promise.” “Well?”

“This is the last night we shall he together. Promise that you won’t be rude and sarcastic as you are sometimes — almost always, now, to poor me — but talk kindly, as we used to do.”

“Very well,” said Charles. “And you promise you won’t he taking such a black view of the state of affairs as you do in general. Do you remember the conversation we had the day the colt was tried?”

“I remember.”

“Well, don’t talk like that, you know.”

“I won’t promise that. The time will come very soon when we shall have no more pleasant talks together.”

“When will that be?”

“When I am gone out for a governess.”

“What wages will you get? You will not get so much as some girls, because you are so pretty and so wilful, and you will le............