“Earls’ patents don’t go begging about in a Jesuit’s pocket without reason; nor are they given to the first comer who asks, only because he can swallow them. Tell me honestly what you mean Eugène—Florian. How am I to call you? With _me_, you are as safe as in the confessional at St. Omer. But speak no more in parables. Riddles are my aversion. A hidden meaning is as irritating as an ugly woman in a mask, and I never in my life could fence for ten minutes with an equal adversary, but I longed to take the buttons off the foils!” Thus adjured, Florian proceeded to unfold the object of his mission. “You were surprised, perhaps,” said he, “to learn from Slap-Jack, who no doubt thought me a ghost till I spoke first, that your old comrade would be sitting with his legs at the same table as yourself this afternoon. You were gratified, I am sure, but you must have been puzzled. Now, Sir George, if you believe that my only reason for crossing the Channel, and riding post a couple of hundred miles, was that I might empty a stoup of this excellent claret in your company, you are mistaken.” He stopped, blushed violently, somewhat to his host’s astonishment, and hid his confusion by replenishing his glass. “I had another object of far more importance both to yourself and to your country. Besides this, I am but fulfilling the orders of my superiors. They employed me—Heaven knows why they employed me!” he broke out vehemently, “except that they thought you the dearest friend I had on earth. And so you _are_! and so you _shall_ be! Listen, Sir George. The last person I spoke with before leaving France, had dined with Villeroy, previous to setting out for St. Omer. The young King had just seen the Marshal, the latter was charged with his Majesty’s congratulations to the King of England (the real King of England) on his infant’s recovery. The boy who had been ailing is still in arms, and his Majesty asked if the young Prince Charles could speak yet? ‘When he does,’ said Villeroy, who has been a courtier for forty years, ‘the first sentence he ought to say is ‘God bless the King of France.’ ‘Not so,’ answered his Majesty, laughing, ‘let him learn the Jacobite countersign, “Box it about, it will come to my father!” If they only “box it about” enough,’ he added, ‘that child in arms should be as sure of the British crown as I am of the French!’ This is almost a declaration in form. It is considered so in Paris. The King’s sentiments can no longer be called doubtful, and with the strong party that I have every reason to believe exists in England disaffected to your present Government, surely the time for action has arrived. They thought so at St. Omer, in a conclave to which I am a mere mouthpiece. I should think so myself, might a humble novice presume to offer an opinion; and when the movement takes place, if Sir George Hamilton is found where his blood, his antecedents, his high spirit and