“I don't know what they ought to be doing,” broke in Conway, angrily, “but I could tell you something of what they are doing; and where you are to find men to do it better, I 'm not so clear. I said a few moments back, you ought to go out to the Crimea; but I beg to correct myself,--it is exactly what you ought not to do.” “Never fear, old fellow; I never dreamed of it. Give you any odds you like, you 'll never see my arrival quoted at Balaklava.” “A thousand pardons, Miss Kellett,” whispered Conway, as he arose, “but you see how little habit I have of good company; I'm quite ashamed of my warmth. May I venture to come and pay you a morning visit before I go back?” “Oh, by all means; but why not an evening one? You are more certain to find us.” “Then an evening one, if you'll allow me;” and shaking Kellett's hand warmly, and with a cold bow to Beecher, he withdrew. “Wasn't he a flat!” cried Beecher, as the door closed after him. “The Smasher--that was the name he went by--went through an estate of six thousand a year, clean and clear, in less than four years, and there he is now, a private soldier with one arm!” “Faith, I like him; he's a fine fellow,” said Kellett, heartily. “Ask Grog Davis if he'd call him a fine fellow,” broke in Beecher, sneeringly; “there's not such a spoon from this to Newmarket. Oh, Paul, my hearty, if I had but one, just one of the dozen chances he has thrown away! But, as Grog says, 'a crowbar won't make a cracksman;' nor will a good stable of horses, and safe jocks 'bring a fellow round,' if he hasn't it here.” And he touched his forehead with his forefinger most significantly. Meanwhile Charles Conway sauntered slowly back to town, on the whole somewhat a sadder man than he had left it in the morning. His friend Jack had spoken much to him of his father and sister, and why or to what extent he knew not, but somehow they did not respond to his own self-drawn picture of them. Was it that he expected old Kellett would have been a racier version of his son,--the same dashing, energetic spirit,--seeing all for the best in life, and accepting even its reverses in a half-jocular humor? Had he hoped to find in him Jack's careless, easy temper,--a nature so brimful of content as to make all around sharers in its own blessings; or had he fancied a “fine old Irish gentleman” of that thoroughbred school he had so often heard of? Nor was he less disappointed with Bella; he thought she had been handsomer, or, at least, quite a different kind of beauty. Jack was blue-eyed and Saxon-looking, and he fancied that she must be a “blonde,” with the same frank, cheery expression of her brother; and he found her dark-haired and dark-skinned, almost Spanish in her look,--the cast of her features grave almost to sadness. She spoke, too, but little, and never once reminded him, by a tone, a gesture, or a word, of his old comrade.