‘Please don’t smother me with wisdom and virtue,’ pleaded Courtenay, with a look of pathetic entreaty. ‘I know we are very ignorant and selfish, and so on, in this old-fashioned England of ours. I really think I might have become a convert and a colonist myself, if taken up early by a sufficiently zealous and prepossessing missionaress. I feel now that it is too late. Club-worship is with me too strongly ingrained in my nature. Clubs and idols are closely connected, you know. But are we never to meet again?’ and here the rarely changed countenance of Courtenay Neuchamp softened visibly. ‘We will have another look at you in late years,’ said Antonia softly; ‘perhaps we may come altogether when—when—we are old.’ ‘I think I may promise that,’ said Mr. Neuchamp. ‘When Frank is old enough to set up for himself at Morahmee, with an occasional trip to Rainbar and Mildool, to keep himself from forgetting how to ride, then I think we may possibly make our last voyage to the old home, in preparation for that journey on which I trust we three may set forth at periods not very distantly divided.’ The brothers shook hands silently. Antonia bestowed a sister’s kiss upon the calm brow of the elder brother, and quitted the room. No more was said. But all needful preparations were made, and ere the autumn leaves had commenced to fall from the aged woods which girdled Neuchampstead, the _Massilia_ was steaming through the Straits of Bonifacio with Ernest Neuchamp watching the snowy mountain-tops of Corsica, while Antonia alternately enlivened the baby Frank or dipped into _The Crescent and the Cross,_ which she had long intended to read over again in a leisurely and considerate manner. * * * * *