A FEW days subsequent to this affair, Mr. Lennox gave a
dinner to a few friends. Although he humbly confessed
himself “no Crœsus,” it may be asserted that the Lydian
king, whatever armies he might have raised, or splendid
gifts he might have presented, could not have inhabited a
more comfortable house, or given a better dinner—at least
according to the tastes of modern palates. His light and
generous heart, and unambitious character, cared little for
the world, save as it ministered to his pleasure, or gratified
his love of hospitable pomp and splendour. His home was
one of those sunshiny retreats which few are so fortunate
as to possess. Blessed, by a large inheritance and the income
of his lucrative profession, with affluence without the
necessity of economy, he enjoyed the delights of extravagance
unaccompanied by any of its usual cares or apprehensions;
for, while nothing can be less like happiness
than expensive pleasures to a man who suffers the haunting
consciousness of living beyond his income, and of revelling,
in advance, on the portion of his widow and orphans,
to a person of Mr. Lennox's lively disposition there was a
hearty delight, long become habitual to him, in the generous
profuseness which prudence itself could not censure.

His home was therefore the scene of all kinds of agreeable
pleasures, and his children were educated fully to appreciate
them. A beautiful country-seat on the Hudson,
about sixty miles from the city, was the usual summer retreat
of his family, when not engaged in excursions to some
of the numerous and interesting points of interest in which
the neighbourhood of New-York is so singularly rich, and
in the winter, music, dancing, the opera, the theatre, balls
and dinners, made them see even the glad, bright months
of summer roll away without regret.

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From his youth Mr. Lennox had been favoured by fortune
(as he expressed it) with an unbroken course of prosperity,
and an almost total exemption from the misfortunes
which so generally afflict others. Health smiled upon him
and upon his. No death had even interrupted the affectionate
happiness of his family. His children were growing
up all that his efforts had striven to make them. He was
beloved and honoured by his friends, and had no enemies
but such as envy and malice, and his independent course
on all occasions where duty called him to act, had made
him, and at these he could afford to snap his fingers. His
life had resembled some of those fabled climates where
wind, rain, cold, and clouds never disturb the softness of the
air or stain the serenity of the sky.

How far such a long career of unshadowed prosperity is
favourable to the development of virtue, the formation of superior
character, or the knowledge of real happiness, the
moralist may determine, but it had certainly not, thus far,
apparently diminished the excellence or the cheerfulness
of the Lennoxes. All acknowledged the warm virtues of
their hearts and the charm of their manners. They were
generous without pride, and affable without condescension.
There are not here, as in most other countries, a class of
poor who live avowedly on the bounty of the opulent, and
hold, from the magnificent charity of the rich, what, but
for the perhaps unavoidable errors of government and society,
they would owe only to their justice. But whenever
misfortune did come in contact with any of the Lennoxes,
it was sure of unaffected sympathy, and, if possible, effectual
relief; and while his family were silently and benevolently
accustomed, with the discrimination which marks
true charity, to relieve the distresses of the poor, many a
helpless client, without money, perhaps, to defend himself
against oppression, or to meet the accidental demands of
the law, had found in Lennox a bold advocate, a fearless
defender, and a generous friend. Many an innocent accused
had seen himself saved from punishment by the outspeaking
eloquence which asked no pay but its own pleasure
in the act, and many a poor debtor, clutched by the
hand of some malignant creditor, and consigned to a dungeon
in the midst of the gay, enlightened city of New-York,
which would have been more in harmony with the dark
council-chamber of Venice (for even such was once, and

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

not long ago, our laws), found not only present ease, but
subsequent success in life.

Under these bright auspices, the two brothers had grown
up as boys, and were about entering into life as men.
Frank, as we have seen, was already a distinguished graduate
from West Point, and Harry had been admitted to the
bar, and become a partner in the lucrative office of his father,
with the intention, on the part of the latter, that he
should, as speedily as possible, take the whole responsibility
of it on himself, with Mr. Emmerson as his assistant,
and, if things went well subsequently, as his partner. But
Harry's triumph at overstepping, at length, the obscure retreats
of boyhood, however mingled with grand visions of
the future, with noble resolutions and an innate love of the
right, was crossed, as we have seen, with some influences
of an opposite nature. He loved virtue and hated vice, but
he had no distinct knowledge of the nature and requisites
of the one, nor the dangers, illusions, and insidious character
of the other. The peaceful and splendid advantages in
the midst of which he had passed his life thus far, the succession
of pleasures which he had enjoyed, his father's
wealth, his own attainments, which were remarkable, his
talents equally so, his very virtues, and, perhaps, the not
unthought-of advantages of his person, filled him with selfconfidence,
and gave his reflections a leaning towards infidelity,
caught from the superficial view which youth takes
of life and nature, and confirmed by the study of Byron,
Gibbon, and similar authors of fascinating genius and profound
attainments, who appear at the bar of history as the
representatives of irreligion and the bold scorners of the
Bible. Thus, his note-books scribbled over with memoranda
of Voltaire and Volney, and his memory stored with
splendid passages from Cain and Childe Harold (while he
never read the lofty, noble, spiritual, and unanswerable arguments
on the other side of the question), young Lennox was
about to launch forth on that mysterious sea, whose glittering,
treacherous bosom has ingulfed so many a “tall ship.”
Destitute of any belief in the future, of any reverence for,
or confidence in God, of any knowledge of his own soul,
more than as the vapoury tenant of a perishing form, his
hopes, wishes, and plans were all confined within this life's
bounds; bounds which, to youth, seem vast and endless,
but which, in a few fleet years, contract to a startling span
and vanish like a morning dream.

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

Mr. Lennox had educated his children with the utmost
care and expense in all the graceful accomplishments, as
well as the necessary branches of learning. They were
excellent musicians, and sweet glees, sweetly sung, were
among the attractions of their frequent soirées. In all the
essentials of worldly honour they had been carefully instructed,
and perhaps no one could be more open to the
noble influences of virtue, more incapable of anything paltry
or mean. In short, all things but one had been done for
them. Like thousands in all parts of Christendom, their
lives had flowed quietly on, in peaceful satisfaction with the
things around them, happy and communicating happiness,
loving and beloved, contented with the practice of virtue and
a horror of vice, living in this world, with it, and for it,
without a thought beyond. And thus had fled (to Mrs. Lennox,
how short and dreamlike did they appear!) the twentyone
bright, unclouded years since the birth of her eldest son.

On the evening previous to the dinner to which we have
alluded, the family had taken tea, Miss Elton was passing
the evening with Mary, and Mr. Lennox was in one of his
silent moods, enjoying a cigar by the open window, when
Frank, who had several times opened his mouth and shut it
again without saying anything, at length delivered what he
appeared to have been labouring with.

“I have a favour to ask of you all,” said he, “and, moreover,
I give you notice beforehand that it is full of poise
and danger, and fearful to be granted.”

“I don't think there can be any necessity for such a very
formal preface,” said his mother.

“Don't be too sure!” said Frank, laughing.

“I cannot be too sure of that,” replied she, “my dear,
wicked boy!”

“Now let us see,” said Frank, “how much ladies really
mean of what they say. So you positively promise to grant
my request before you know what it is?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And father?”

“Yes.”

“Upon my word I'm afraid to name it.”

“Why, what is it?” said his father. “You would not
ask, I am sure, anything which ought to be refused.”

“I suppose,” said Mary, “you want to go abroad, and
father is to give his permission, get you leave of absence,

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

and allow you a couple of thousand dollars a year, or so,
till you see the world and fight some more duels.”

“Would you grant that?” asked Frank.

“I don't know. No—yes,” said his father.

“But—” said Mrs. Lennox.

“I know,” said Frank, “the dangers I should have to
encounter—shipwreck, fire, water, lightning, plague, pestilence,
and famine. I know exactly what you are going to
say, my dear mother. Then I should probably die several
times during my long absence, or you would all die before
my return; and I should be robbed in Spain, and murdered
in Syria, corrupted in Paris, and killed in several duels, as
Mary says, and all that!”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Lennox. “If you wish to go
abroad, you can go by the next packet, or as soon as I can
arrange with the War Department for your leave of absence.
I think it a capital idea.”

“My dear boy,” said his mother, her eyes filling with
tears, “two, three, four years, at my time of life! I should
never see you again—I have a presentiment.”

“Of course you have,” said Frank, laughing; “of course
you wouldn't. Who ever did come back safe from a tour
in Europe? The idea is absurd on the face of it, of course!”

“Ah, yes, you can laugh! it's a fine thing to be young
and thoughtless, to be sure,” said Mrs. Lennox. “And how
would you go—without any companion, too?”

“I suppose you're like Miss Elton, and think I ought to
have my mamma with me all my life, to keep me from being
run over, from taking cold, &c., &c., &c.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” said Mr. Lennox.

“Well, come! I won't go abroad at present,” said
Frank, taking his mother's hand, and pressing it tenderly to
his lips. “I'll compromise with you for another favour—a
very tri&longs;ling one, which will be begun and ended in a day.
Do you agree to that? Come!”

“Yes.”

“Now, then, let us see this time what success!”

“Do, for Heaven's sake, let's know what it is?” said
Mary.

“Old age makes him garrulous,” remarked Miss Elton.

“We have a dinner to-morrow.”

“Well?”

“I wish to add two particular friends to the party.”

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

“Why, of course—certainly. What a ridiculous request!”

“As if the dinner were not for you!” said Mary.

“Pray, what objection do you see to your asking whom
you please to my house?” demanded Mr. Lennox. “Who
are your friends? John shall go for them immediately.”

“The first is—Captain White,” said Frank, making a
face aside to Mary, as of a man who touches a match and
stands expecting an explosion.

“What! the second of Captain Glendenning?”

“Yes, my dear mother.”

“You're mad, Frank,” said his mother, “or else you're
jesting!”

“Really, sir,” said his father, “it seems to me you
choose your associates in rather an eccentric manner.”

“Oh, very well,” said Frank. “It would have gratified
me very much, that's all.”

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Lennox; “we have already
granted it: we cannot retract; though I must say, you
often really surprise me, Frank. Captain White is the
friend and boon-companion of that Glendenning. Men who
frequent profligate society must expect to be thought themselves
profligates. Glendenning has insulted you and all
of us in the grossest manner; and I must say I do not
think the companion of such a person a proper associate
either for yourself or your family. Fanny, too, and her
mother and father, also, dine with us to-morrow, and—I
really think you had better withdraw your request. I should
like to know what you will propose next, you unreasonable
creature you!”

“Why, as to what I could propose next,” said Frank,
with a frown upon his brow, softened, however, by the halfsuppressed
smile which lurked around his lips, “there is
only one thing which I could propose next consistently—
under the circumstances.”

“And what the devil's that?” demanded his father, somewhat
sternly.

“Why,” said Frank, coolly, “to bring Glendenning himself!”

“You're tri&longs;ling with your mother.”

“No; I assure you I never was more serious in my life.
That is the request you have granted in advance, and I
think, if you'll hear me speak a moment, I'll persuade you—
convince you that I am quite right.”

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

“Well, Frank,” said Mrs. Lennox, with obviously serious
displeasure, “if you bring Captain Glendenning here
to-morrow, I have nothing more to say, but I shall dine in
my room.”

“You do injustice to Glendenning,” said Frank, warmly.
“I have several times met him since our affair, and he has
rendered me all the satisfaction that a gentleman could render
or a gentleman require. This offence was an act of delirium,
committed in a moment of intoxication, for which he
nearly atoned with his life. I can't forget, nor should you,
that he magnanimously refrained from killing me, even
while the blow I had given him was yet burning on his forehead.
Is that nothing? It was done, too, at the moment
when I was striving my utmost to kill him. I have always
been taught that it is the Christian's duty to forgive and
forget. On a nearer acquaintance with him, I find him a
noble, capital fellow, and I have reason to know that the
stories that fellow Earnest told me of him are gross exaggerations.
There is something really delightful, fascinating
about him. Free-hearted, generous, brave, totally without
malice, full of wit, fun, and intelligence—the most agreeable
companion you ever saw. Plays sweetly on the piano,
sings an excellent song; and, as our affair is settled, I see
no reason, since I like him very much, why I should not
show him the hospitalities which a stranger ought to meet
with. Do, now, my dear mother, do oblige me.”

“Well!” said Mr. Lennox, “I'm sure I've no objection.
There is some truth in what Frank says. The fact that
they fought yesterday is no reason why they should not
embrace to-day. Come, wife, let's have him!”

“You are as bad as Frank himself,” said Mrs. Lennox.
“Here comes an Englishman to New-York, goes about day
and night seeking quarrels and raising riots—sometimes, for
what we know always, in a state of intoxication—a duellist—
in short, a professed roué. He insults a modest young girl
under our protection in a coarse and ungentlemanly way,
and, instead of meeting such a character and such conduct
as they deserve, and avoiding such an example for our own
sons, you propose to bring him into your family, because
Frank, whose liking is a mere caprice, finds that he sings a
good song and plays on the piano. I should like to see my
sons select their associates for their moral and intellectual
qualities. For my part, I cannot consent to anything of
this sort.”

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

“Keep cool! keep cool, Katy, my dear!” said Mr. Lennox;
“be assured Frank will not do anything contrary to
your wishes. A dinner, you know, Frank, my boy, in order
to be agreeable, must contain no discordant materials.
As the Eltons are to be here, it seems to me—and as your
mother is so serious in her views of your new friend, and,
therefore—heh! my son? let the matter rest. Yet, at the
same time, Kate, let me make a remark. As to the offence
which caused the meeting between these two madcaps, that
has been fairly and honourably settled. That subject ought
to be now dropped. As for Glendenning's wildness, many
a sober, correct youth turns out a paltry, selfish, sneaking
scoundrel in the end, and I believe there's just as much to
censure and to despise among irreproachable men, who
stand fair before the world, as among the frank and careless
fellows who take no pains to conceal their faults and follies.
Many a young rip, like this Glendenning, is all the better
for his wildness, in his after years. I myself—what are
you laughing at, miss? How dare you laugh when I'm
talking?”

“At the curious illustration of your last proposition, my
dear father. You are not going to cite yourself as an example,
I hope?”

“Yes, I am. I was as hot-headed, wild, and impudent a
young rascal as ever breathed. Yet look at me now! Young
men will be young men, and we must take care to distinguish
between the mere outbreaks of a merry soul like Harry the
Fifth and inherent vice. Now I've been told that this Glendenning
is a noble fellow, and that his tricks are mere wildness
and high spirits. The only way for a man is to go
into the world, and take it as it is. He didn't make it, and
can't reform it. If people treat him well, good—be civil to
them. If a man is rude, call him out, kill him, and you'll
not be insulted again.”

“You make my blood run cold, Henry,” said Mrs. Lennox,
“to hear, from a father's lips, such wicked principles
to his son.”

“Bah! what do women know of these things? Frank
never did anything in his life which does him more honour
than going out with that fellow. Men, and women too, love
unflinching courage. I have no doubt this circumstance
will open to him a brilliant career in life. In the next
place, it has made him formidable to the scoundrels by

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whom one is surrounded in all ranks and classes of life,
and who go on, some slandering and imposing upon you,
some bullying you just as far as you'll let them, and no farther.
Why, Frank himself, ever since the meeting, has
looked, walked, acted, thought, and felt more like a man
and a gentleman that I ever saw him before.”

“But not like a Christian,” said Mrs. Lennox.

“That means nothing,” said Mr. Lennox.

“You know what pain you cause me, my dear husband,
by expressing yourself in this way at all, and particularly
before our children. Oh, Henry, you have a fearful thing
to answer for. Mary is without religion, and Frank and
Harry turn it into ridicule.”

“Pooh! pooh! They are not monks, that's all. They're
well enough. They believe all they can.”

“As for Captain Glendenning,” continued Mrs. Lennox,
gravely, “I detest and abhor the character and the man. I
do not believe, with all my desire to oblige Frank, I could
receive such a person in my house with ordinary courtesy.”

“Oh, very well!” said Frank, haughtily.

“You'll allow your mother to judge, I hope, what companions
are proper for herself and her daughter, if you don't
deign to let her choose yours,” said Mr. Lennox, a little
sharply.

Frank had a face which betrayed every emotion of his
soul, a large, full eye, generally very sweet in its expression,
and a mouth around which played a smile almost invariably
when he spoke, but, in the silence which followed
the last remark, every trace of his gentleness had disappeared.
His brow darkened, the sternness of his countenance
was heightened by a streak of red, which shot burning
into his cheek, and his eyes fell upon his mother with
an expression which she, at least, had never seen in them
before. There was something new and different in his demeanour
since the late duel. The first hot days of summer
scarcely work greater changes in the tender vegetation than
had taken place in this boy within the last few weeks
through the influence of passion and action. Love, vengeance,
danger, pride, had been busy in his nature; and if
strength and manly self-dependance had been added, sweetness,
modest humility, and the lowly spirit of true wisdom
had been proportionably withdrawn.

“Come!” said Mrs. Lennox, recovering herself, and

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holding out her hand, for she, too, had been touched with a moment
of passion (perhaps a peculiarity in the family disposition),
“leave the subject, my dear Frank, and don't be
ashamed to yield to your mother.”

“Oh, certainly!” said Frank, almost rudely pushing
back the proffered hand, “if I cannot be gratified in the
simple wish to invite a friend to my father's house, I shall
not press it. I can tell Captain Glendenning that—that—
indeed, I shall tell him nothing, but let him take it as he
likes.”

“Why, what necessity is there to speak to Captain Glendenning
about it at all?” said Mr. Lennox.

To this no one replied.

“Only this I have learned,” continued Frank, after a
pause, rising as if about to leave the room; “I have learned
what respect to attach to the professions of ladies, and I
shall not ask another favour, I can tell you. I did not expect
to be treated like a boy all my life.”

“Stop, sir!” said his father.

There was something in Mr. Lennox's voice and frown,
to which, despite his careless lightness of character, every
one in the family had long been accustomed to yield implicit
obedience. His son now, with ill-concealed anger,
but without hesitation, remained at his call.

“What do you mean by that? In becoming a man, if
you are one, have you ceased to be a gentleman and a son?
Whatever may be your feelings or opinions, you will be
pleased to govern them in my presence, and remember, in
this debate, your opponent is your mother.”

“Very well, very well!” replied Frank; “that is a point
she is not likely to suffer me to overlook, as she proposes,
I perceive, to keep me to her apron-strings. I beg to yield
the thing. I withdraw my request.”

“Her apron-strings, sir!” said Mr. Lennox, rising.
“Upon my word, your expressions are as elegant as your
conduct is sensible. I am surprised at your forgetfulness
of the respect you owe her. Even if she were wrong, you
should instantly yield; but, upon reflection, it is my opinion
she's right; and, therefore, if the wishes of so insignificant
a person as your father have any influence with your
Royal Highness, you will, perhaps, condescend to dismiss
that thunder-cloud from your brow, and deign to remember
who and where you are.”

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A month ago Frank would have burst into tears at such
an address from one whom he loved with the deepest sincerity
and tenderness. But he had now new views. How
can the duellist, who has triumphantly outraged society,
humanity, and God, preserve his respect for minor things?
How can he, who is taught recklessly to present his bosom
to the murderous weapon, without adequate motive or regard
for consequences, hesitate to meet and to despise, in
the moment of proud passion, the tears of a mother or the
frowning reprobation of a father. He only replied, therefore,
without at all softening his lofty manner,

“I obey you, sir. I perfectly agree with you. I should
be the last person in the world to lay myself under obligations
to any one. I will write Glendenning a note this
moment. I will tell him that circumstances prevent my
renewing our acquaintance as I wished, till, at least, I have
a house of my own, when—certainly—I presume I shall
be at liberty to—to—”

“Heydey, sir! hoity-toity, hoity-toity! what's all this?”
said his father. “How dare you, you young dog! address
your mother or me in such a style as that? Why, I should
think you the Great Mogul, or the Sublime Porte, or a
pacha with two or three dozen tails at least!”

“Sir, this jesting is—” said Frank, with flashing eyes,
as if about to say something which might have made matters
more serious, when an arm gently stole around his
waist and drew him affectionately to the sofa, and a voice
completed the daring sentence with,

“Is your father's, Frank!”

It was Mrs. Lennox, who had affectionately interfered,
her eyes full of tears, to prevent the conversation going
too far.

“I beg—” said he.

“My son, my son!” interrupted she, placing her fingers
on his brow, and putting away from his flashing eyes the
thick, dark hair, “what wild, bad passions have taken possession
of you? Is this my sweet, gentle boy, his mother's
pride, his father's hope? Is this your new manhood?”

Frank raised his hand suddenly to his eyes and hid his
face. Enough was visible of it, however, to show that he
was touched with softer feelings.

“Yes, my son,” continued she, “it is. You have left
already youth and innocence. Dark, fierce passions and

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

bloody thoughts have taken possession of my boy; worldworship,
heathen pride, and the evil spirit himself, unchecked
by one idea of your Bible—your Saviour—your God.”

“Forgive me, my mother!” said the young man, turning
away his face, which he still covered with one hand, while
with the other he grasped hers. “I am a fool.”

“And see to what it leads. You don't know to what it
may lead hereafter. I cannot bear to see you enter the
state of manhood with such principles as you and Harry
possess. It will lead to something dreadful. So young,
and already so high and haughty, giving way to passion on
every occasion and against everybody; fearless of death
yourself, because you don't know what it is, and reckless
of shedding the life-blood of others, or of breaking hearts
that depend on you for their happiness; without prayer, religion,
or any fixed belief in God or a hereafter, and frowning
on your own mother with a fierceness which actually
made me tremble. And how many times have I carried
you in these arms, and kissed your little soft mouth, and
watched by you the whole night through, and prayed to
God over your sleep, that your future course might be pure
and holy, and in the path of right and righteousness. Little
did I think, when I used to press those laughing eyes
to my lips, that they could ever dart upon me such a look.”

There was a pause.

“Frank, you too are an infidel!”

“I do not wish to be, my dear mother.”

“But are you not?”

“I cannot control my opinion. I can only believe what
I can believe,” said Frank, a little impatiently. “I am
young. Perhaps hereafter—but now—I cannot be master
of my opinions.”

“But you can of your actions, and your opinions, I trust,
will change more slowly. You know my opinions on duelling.
Your death in a duel would break my heart, I
solemnly believe, and bring me to a premature grave.
Were you so unfortunate and guilty as to kill another, I
should find the blow still more intolerable. I am your
mother; my health, happiness, and life are interested. I
have a right to speak, and a right to be listened to. Hear
me, therefore. Bring your new friend Glendenning to dinner
to-morrow. I accord the request, and was, perhaps,
wrong to refuse it. I grant it unconditionally, and I will

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

so far overcome, or at least command, my own feelings, as
to treat him as you would wish a friend of yours to be treated.
But I am going to make a request. You have now
established your character beyond cavil as a brave man.
Now then, my son, I make you a solemn prayer—I, your
mother: as a test of your affection, a mark of your gratitude,
and a recompense to me for all a mothers' pain and a
mother's care, give me your word you will never, under any
circumstances, fight another duel.”

“What, even if—”

“Even if anything,” said she. “It is, perhaps, a sacrifice
I ask; but it is your mother who asks it—I implore. It is,
perhaps, her own life which a mother begs of her son, and
he hesitates.”

“My mother,” said Frank, greatly affected, but smiling
through his tears, “you make me feel like another Coriolanus.”

“Do not be, then, less human than he.”

“Well, you have succeeded. I do here, in the most
solemn manner—”

“Hallo!” said Mr. Lennox, who had stood very quietly
regarding this scene, sometimes himself affected, sometimes
shaking his head doubtingly, and who had just lighted a
new cigar, and was blowing out a long wreath of smoke as
he spoke—“Hallo! Stop, my boy. What is all this, Katy,
my dear? Don't take advantage of his innoncence and affection
for you to extort a promise, the nature of which you
do not understand, and which he will possibly hereafter
have many reasons to regret, perhaps some to violate. I
never knew any good yet come of virtuous resolutions. If
a man ain't good without them, he won't be with; and to
the sin, whatever it may be, which he commits, they only
add perjury, and a double sense of meanness and guilt.
How often have I sworn I would not smoke, and yet, here
I am, you see! What drawback do you suppose such a resolution
would be to him if he received any galling, sudden,
scorching insult? By Jove! in such cases, men don't
think of resolutions. I don't wish him, or any son of mine,
to entangle himself with resolutions, and promises, and
oaths, on any subject. Then, as to duelling, I approve it.
I wish him to fight. I'll load his pistols for him, and go out
with him, rather than he should show the white feather.
Society is what it is, and God made it as it is. The

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Christian doctrine of forgiveness of enemies is nonsense. A man
smites you on one cheek, you are to turn the other. He
takes your coat, you are to give him your cloak also. What
would society become under such circumstances? A wild
Indian breaks into your home and murders your wife; you
stand quietly by, when a manly defence might save her, and,
when she is finished, you politely show him the way to the
cradle of your infant child. Captain Glendenning offers an
insult to Miss Elton, and Frank stands aside, with a meek
smile, and points the drunken scoundrel to Mary and
you.”

“Oh, my husband, this is not the right interpretation of
the word of Christ.”

“Well, if we can interpret these things differently, good.
You interpret them your way—we, ours. You fancy yourself
bound to make no distinction between friend and foe,
and when you see a servant stealing your diamonds, hand
her, if you choose, the key to your plate. We will forgive
our enemies also; but, by Jove! we'll teach them to behave
themselves first. But, by-the-way, my dear Kate, it seems
to me you and Frank are changing ground here. It is
Frank who forgives Glendenning, and you refuse pardon!”

There was so much truth in this that it occasioned a
general laugh, in which the differences in this happy and
affectionate family generally ended.

“Well, I'll tell you what,” said Frank, “I have not been
exactly honest with you, and that's one reason, perhaps,
why I have been more hurt by mother's refusal than she
thinks I ought to have been. To say the truth, I have already
asked Glendenning. I have committed myself thus
too far to retreat; otherwise, although I do think the fellow
very agreeable and clever, I should have never put the
mere whim of having him here in comparison with your
displeasure or annoyance.”

“There! that's your father's own son!” said Mrs. Lennox.
“Go and do a thing first, and then ask permission.”

“But Miss Elton,” said Mr. Lennox; “don't you think
she has some right to be consulted?”

“Oh, I am sure, sir,” said Miss Elton, who had hitherto
been so distressed at the altercation in the family, that
she was pleased in almost any way to behold its amicable
termination, “I could have no right, no wish to form an
opinion.”

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

“There's an angel for you, you young dog!” said his father,
who little dreamed how far matters had gone between
them. Frank blushed, but Fanny remained undisturbed by
the observation.

“Of course, I ought not to have invited him without announcing
it to Miss Elton and begging her consent, but I
was so sure—”

“Oh, let us have him,” said Mary; “perhaps it will be
of service to the poor fellow to see what a family he was
about depriving of its pride and ornament.”

Frank bowed at the compliment.

“Well done! Molly!” said her father. “You are more
forgiving than more pious folks!”

“I must not take too much credit,” said Mary, “or I
should be dishonest. The truth is, I am dying of curiosity
to see this young gentleman. Frank says he's agreeable,
clever, and handsome. Mr. Emmerson says he's vulgar,
coarse, and ugly. Mr. Earnest told me he was the greatest
genius that ever lived, and father thinks his conduct is only
the effervescence of such noble qualities as Henry the
Fifth's. What people talk so much about, and give such
contradictory opinions about, of course becomes an object
of interest, and, as I am of the fairer sex, and curiosity is
one of our allowed foibles, I move we let the youth come,
if it's only to have a good look at him.”

“I had one look at him,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a shudder,
“as his face turned on Frank after he had received the
blow. His countenance was that of the very evil spirit of
darkness and fury himself, and I thought to see Frank
struck dead at his feet by the very glance of his eye.”

“Pooh! pooh!” said Mr. Lennox; “when men are struck,
you must not expect them to look amiable. Eyes don't kill
quite so easily; at least” (turning to Fanny) “not those
of the male gender. Now, there are obs—”

“Mine, I presume,” said Fanny. “If you think them so
dangerous, you had better get out of their way.”

“You're an impudent little witch,” said Lennox, “and
for all the trouble you have caused in this family, you must
make me some reparation.”

“What reparation, you horrid being? Do you think you
are going to scold me as you do poor Frank?”

Mr. Lennox approached her, and she started off to the
corner of the room, for she had been subjected to these

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

reparations before in the company of her audacious, light-hearted
host!

“You must come to it, Fanny,” said he. “The laws of
the Medes and Persians were mere weathercocks to my determination.
You might just as well yield.”

“Well, I'll capitulate on honourable terms rather than
endure your impertinence,” said Fanny, blushing, and looking
so provokingly pretty that Frank began almost to think
it his duty to interfere.

“Take care!” said Lennox, “I'm coming.”

“Well, then, stop, and I'll capitulate.”

“How can you be such a child, Henry?” said Mrs. Lennox.

“Silence! good mother hear the embassy,” quoted Lennox.
“Now say, Chatillon, what would France with us?”

“Well!” said Fanny, laughing, “I will come and kiss
you, and I'm not to suffer such an extortion again, at least
for a month.”

“Agreed!”

“Agreed!”

She left the corner and fairly kissed him on his cheek,
upon which he smacked his lips in such a way that Frank's
dark eyes flashed and Mrs. Lennox said,

“If I were Fanny, I'd box your ears for you.”

“But, unfortunately, you are not Fanny, my dear,” said
Lennox.

“You're so ready to order everybody else to be horsewhipped,”
said Fanny, “what do you think you yourself
deserve?”

“To hear you, Frank, and Mary sing a glee as a punishment,”
said Lennox. “Come, we have had no music since
Frank's scrape.”

She sat down at the piano and ran her fingers rapidly
over the keys. Frank drew near with Mary, and they commenced
a favourite glee, both Mr. and Mrs. Lennox joining,
for both sang well.

Harry came in, for it was late, while they were singing.
Had they attended to him, they would have marked the pale
thought and moody sadness of his countenance; but the
rest were too absorbed in their delightful occupation to observe
anything else, and the young man entered unnoticed,
or at least unspoken to, and stood in the embrasure of a
deep window, half concealed behind a heavy curtain, with

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

folded arms and glowing brow, leaning against the wall,
gazing at the group as on a picture.

“Miss Elton's servant!” said a domestic, opening the
door.

“Why, what does Miss Elton want of a servant?” said
Mrs. Lennox. “Is not Frank here?”

“Oh, I thought, perhaps, my dear Mrs. Lennox, I am so
troublesome to you; and, besides, it's cruel to take Frank
out this time of night.”

“Really, Miss Elton,” said Frank, “you and everybody
else seem to think me a very delicate child!”

“Certainly!” said she, laughing. “Poor little fellow!
He looks as if he ought to have been in bed an hour ago!”

Contrary to his resolution, Harry tried to catch her parting
glance, but she went off laughing, and without looking
at him.