“Yes,” said he, “and I only waited for you to announce its contents to poor Henry; for I wish you to tell me whether you think the news will make him as happy as yesterday he thought it would.” Tracey and I then went out, and joined Henry in his walk. The young man turned round on us an impatient countenance. “So we have lost Bourke,” said Tracey. “I hope he will return to England with the reputation he goes forth to seek.” “Ay,” said Henry, “Bourke is a lucky dog to have found, in one who is not related to him, so warm and so true a friend.” “Every dog, lucky or unlucky, has his day,” said Percival, gravely. “Every dog except a house-dog,” returned Henry. “A house-dog is thought only fit for a chain and a kennel.” “Ah, happy if his happiness he knew!” replied Tracey. “But I own that liberty compensates for the loss of a warm litter and a good dinner. Away from the kennel and off with the chain! Read this letter, and accept my congratulations—_Major_ Thornhill!” The young man started; the colour rushed to his cheeks; he glanced hastily over the letter held out to him; dropped it; caught his kinsman’s hand, and pressing it to his heart, exclaimed, “Oh, sir, thanks, thanks! So then, all the while I was accusing you of obstructing my career you were quietly promoting it! How can you forgive me my petulance, my ingratitude?” “Tut,” said Percival, kindly, “the best-tempered man is sometimes cross in his cups; and nothing, perhaps, more irritates a young brain than to get drunk on the love of glory.” At the word glory the soldier’s crest rose, his eye flashed fire, his whole aspect changed, it became lofty and noble. Suddenly his eye caught sight of Clara, who had stepped out of the window, and stood gazing on him. His head drooped, tears rushed to his eyes, and with a quivering, broken voice, he muttered, “Poor Clara—my wife, my darling! Oh, Sir Percival, truly you said how bitterly I should repent every unkind word and look. Ah, they will haunt me!” “Put aside regrets now. Go and break the news to your wife: support, comfort her; you alone can. I have not dared to tell her.” Henry sighed and went, no longer joyous, but with slow step and paling cheek, to the place where Clara stood. We saw him bend over the hand she held out to him, kiss it humbly, and then passing his arm round her waist, he drew her away into the farther recesses of the garden, and both disappeared from our eyes. “No,” said I, “he is not happy; like us all, he finds that things coveted have no longer the same charm when they are things possessed. Clara is avenged already. But you have done wisely. Let him succeed or let him fail, you have removed from Clara her only rival. If you had debarred him from honour you would have estranged him from love. Now you have bound him to Clara for life. She has ceased to be an obstacle to his dreams, and henceforth she herself will be the dream which his waking life will sigh to regain.”