“That Barrington race is not a very pliant one,” said Stapylton, half dreamily; and then, in some haste, added, “at least, such is the character they give them here.” “Some truth there may be in that. Men of a strong temperament and with a large share of self-dependence generally get credit from the world for obstinacy, just because the road _they_ see out of difficulties is not the popular one. But even with all this, I 'd not call old Peter self-willed; at least, Withering tells me that from time to time, as he has conveyed to him the opinions and experiences of old Indian officers, some of whom had either met with or heard of George, he has listened with much and even respectful attention. And as all their counsels have gone against his own convictions, it is something to give them a patient hearing.” “He has thus permitted strangers to come and speak with him on these topics?” asked Stapylton, eagerly. “No, no,--not he. These men had called on Withering,--met him, perhaps, in society,--heard of his interest in George Barrington's case, and came good-naturedly to volunteer a word of counsel in favor of an old comrade. Nothing more natural, I think.” “Nothing. I quite agree with you; so much so, indeed, that having served some years in India, and in close proximity, too, to one of the native courts, I was going to ask you to present me to your friend Mr. Withering, as one not altogether incapable of affording him some information.” “With a heart and a half. I 'll do it.” “I say, Harry,” cried out the host, “if you and Captain Stapylton will neither fill your glasses nor pass the wine, I think we had better join the ladies.” And now there was a general move to the drawing-room, where several evening guests had already assembled, making a somewhat numerous company. Polly Dill was there, too,--not the wearied-looking, careworn figure we last saw her, when her talk was of “dead anatomies,” but the lively, sparkling, bright-eyed Polly, who sang the Melodies to the accompaniment of him who could make every note thrill with the sentiment his own genius had linked to it. I half wish I had not a story to tell,--that is, that I had not a certain road to take,--that I might wander at will through by-path and lane, and linger on the memories thus by a chance awakened! Ah, it was no small triumph to lift out of obscure companionship and vulgar associations the music of our land, and wed it to words immortal, to show us that the pebble at our feet was a gem to be worn on the neck of beauty, and to prove to us, besides, that our language could be as lyrical as Anacreon's own! “I am enchanted with your singing,” whispered Stapylton, in Polly's ear; “but I 'd forego all the enjoyment not to see you so pleased with your companion. I begin to detest the little Poet.” “I 'll tell him so,” said she, half gravely; “and he 'll know well that it is the coarse hate of the Saxon.”