He wanted not only to get on in the world, to acquire an income and marry Matty, but also to be good for something in his generation. If the course of true love had been quite smooth with him, if Matty had been his natural mate, Colin could not have contented himself with that personal felicity. He was doubtful of all his surroundings, like most young men of his period--doubtful what to do and how to do it--more than doubtful of all the local ways and fashions of the profession to which he had been trained. But underneath this uncertainty lay something of which Colin had no doubt. He had not been brought into the world without an object; he did not mean to leave it without leaving some mark that he had been here. To get through life easily and secure as much pleasure as possible by the way was not the theory of existence known at Ramore. _There_ it was understood to be a man’s, a son’s duty to better his position, to make his way upwards in the world; and this philosophy of life had been enlarged and elevated in the poetic soul of Colin’s mother. He had something to do in his own country, in his own generation. This was the master-idea of the young man’s mind. But how it was to be reconciled with this aimless, dependent life in the rich English household--with this rivalry, which could never come to anything, with Sir Thomas Frankland’s heir--with this vain love, which, it began to be apparent to Colin, must, like the rivalry, end in nothing--it was hard to see. He remained on the terrace for about an hour, walking up and down in the fog. All that he could see before him were some indistinct outlines of trees, looking black through the steaming white air, and, behind, the great ghost of the house, with its long front and wings receding into the mist--the great, wealthy, stranger house, to which he and his life had so little relationship. Many were the thoughts in Colin’s mind during this hour; and they were far from satisfactory. Even the object of his love began to be clouded over with fogs, which looked very different, breathing over those low, rich, English levels, from the fairy mists of the Lady’s Glen. He began to perceive dimly that his devotion was a toy and plaything to this little woman of the world. He began to perceive what an amount of love would be necessary to make such a creature as Matty place herself consciously by the side of such a man as himself. Love!--and as yet all that he could say certainly of Matty was that she liked a little love-making, and had afforded him a great many facilities for that agreeable but unproductive occupation. Colin’s heart lost itself in an uncertainty darker than the fog. His own position galled him profoundly. He was Charley’s tutor. They were all very kind to him; but, supposing he were to ask the child of the house to descend from her eminence and be his wife--not even his wife, indeed, but his betrothed; to wait years and years for him until he should be able to claim her--what would