This was what Mr. Beresford at last made up his mind to ascertain boldly one way or another. It was about the same time as Oswald, approaching the railway junction, was turning over his dilemma and seeing no way out of it. Mr. Beresford had been hearing a lecture, and was in a chastened state of mind. He had been hearing about the convulsions of the early world, and by what means the red-hot earth cooled down and settled itself, after all manner of heavings and boilings, into something of the aspect it wears. As he walked home he dwelt upon the wonderful grandeur of such phenomena. What did it matter, after all, what happened to a few small insignificant persons on the crust which had formed over all these convulsions? What of their little weepings and lovings and momentary struggles, to one who could study such big and mighty strainings of force against force? A little while at the most, and the creatures who made so much fuss about their feelings would be a handful of dust; but volcanic action would go on for ever. Notwithstanding this philosophy, however, it must be allowed that, whereas he had heard of these convulsions with the calmest bosom, his heart began to beat as he approached Mrs. Meredith’s door. If the moon had tumbled out of the sky, or a boiling caldron suddenly revealed itself in the earth, so long as it was at a safe distance, even Mr. Beresford, who was so fond of science, would not have cared a tenth part so much about it as he did to know what his neighbour meant; which was inconsistent, but natural perhaps. The philosophy went out of his head as he approached the door. Little fusses of loving and of liking--momentary cross-lights, or, let us say, flickering farthing candles of human sentiment--what are they to the big forces that move the world? Is not a bit of chalk more interesting than all your revolutions and changes?--your petty sufferings, passions, heroisms, and the like? Mr. Beresford thought he believed all that--yet, heaven above! how calm he was when the chalk was under consideration, and how much perturbed when he went up the steps of the house next door! ‘You have been out to-night?’ ‘Yes, I have been hearing Robinson--a remarkably interested, intelligent audience. Where are the boys? Edward should come--it would interest him.’ ‘Edward is always at work. He is killing himself for this examination. I wish he could be interested in something less serious. Oswald has been away all day. I think he said he was going to the country. If we could only mix them up a little,’ said the mother, with an anxious smile--‘to one a little more gravity, to the other a little more of his brother’s light-heartedness.’ Mr. Beresford did not say anything about the superior interest of volcanic action, as he might, nay, perhaps ought, to have done. He said instead, in the feeblest way, ‘That will come as they get older. You must give them time.’