The returns for Scotland and Ireland showed an increase in a still greater proportion. Education, we are told, is to effect a change; it will convert intemperate, improvident, and demoralised millions into sober, frugal, and independent citizens. It has not done so as yet, that is very certain, but we must wait till it does. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE WORTHY VICAR――A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR. Let us return to the halls of the rich and great. In the library at Broxbridge are seated two venerable-looking gentleman; the first of these is Lord Ethalwood, his companion being the white-haired old vicar. They are both students, only in different ways. The rev. father in God, Canon Lenthal, was a special favourite with the master of Broxbridge. “But you will pardon me, my lord,” he observed, in his soft, mellifluous voice. “The time, I think, has arrived when it is your bounden duty to look to the future. I have no desire to allude to painful subjects, but I really think your worldly affairs should not be forgotten.” “My children are dead, sir,” returned the earl――“have been dead for very many years――and every hope of my life has been destroyed. I bow to the decrees of Fate; but the last thing an Ethalwood lays down is what the world is pleased to term his pride.” “My dear and very excellent friend,” said the vicar, “that may be true enough――without doubt it is absolutely true in every sense of the word; but, nevertheless, that is no reason for you not turning your eyes towards the future, which is to one and all of us inevitable. Look around you and consider who is to succeed you――who is to carry on the glories and the honours of your grand old race?” “I have no next of kin save a headstrong, wild, dissipated nephew, who is unworthy for a place of honour――unworthy to represent the ancient and honoured line of the Ethalwoods.” “The more reason, then, is there for you making an effort while there is yet time.” “Make an effort!” exclaimed the Earl. “Can I restore the dead to life?” he added, with supreme bitterness. “Can I call back the loved ones who have passed away?” “Assuredly not.” “Then what do you mean by an effort?” “My dear Lord Ethalwood, I have no desire to offend you, but assuredly you can be at no loss to divine my meaning?” There was a pause. The nobleman made no reply. Like Othello, he gnawed his nether lip, and looked persistently at a large silver salver that blazed on the sideboard beneath the rays of the midday sun, which found their way through the oriel window of the apartment. The vicar felt that he was treading upon forbidden ground. He, however, determined upon proceeding. “I think you have not duly considered the matter, Lord Ethalwood,” he observed, in the same quiet tender way. “Nay, I am sure you cannot have done so. You have a daughter.” “I have no daughter――she died years ago.” “Died?” “She has been dead to me――dead――for full five and twenty years.”