“Certainly,” was all Hugh’s answer; for he saw that he must not pursue the subject at present: the boy was quite hypochondriacal. His face was keen, with that clear definition of feature which suggests superior intellect. He was, though very small for his age, well proportioned, except that his head and face were too large. His forehead indicated thought; and Hugh could not doubt that, however uninteresting the books which he read might be, they must have afforded him subjects of mental activity. But he could not help seeing as well, that this activity, if not altered in its direction and modified in its degree, would soon destroy itself, either by ruining his feeble constitution altogether, or, which was more to be feared, by irremediably injuring the action of the brain. He resolved, however, to let him satisfy his conscience by reading the book; hoping, by the introduction of other objects of thought and feeling, to render it so distasteful, that he would be in little danger of yielding a similar pledge again, even should the temptation return, which Hugh hoped to prevent. “But you have read enough for the present, have you not?” said he, rising, and approaching the book-shelves. “Yes; I have been reading since breakfast.” “Ah! there’s a capital book. Have you ever read it—Gulliver’s Travels?” “No. The outside looked always so uninteresting.” “So does Polexander’s outside.” “Yes. But I couldn’t help that one.” “Well, come along. I will read to you.” “Oh! thank you. That will be delightful. But must we not go to our lessons?” “I’m going to make a lesson of this. I have been talking to your papa; and we’re going to begin with a holiday, instead of ending with one. I must get better acquainted with you first, Harry, before I can teach you right. We must be friends, you know.” The boy crept close up to him, laid one thin hand on his knee, looked in his face for a moment, and then, without a word, sat down on the couch close beside him. Before an hour had passed, Harry was laughing heartily at Gulliver’s adventures amongst the Lilliputians. Having arrived at this point of success, Hugh ceased reading, and began to talk to him. “Is that lady your cousin?” “Yes. Isn’t she beautiful?” “I hardly know yet. I have not got used to her enough yet. What is her name?” “Oh! such a pretty name—Euphrasia.” “Is she the only lady in the house?” “Yes; my mamma is dead, you know. She was ill for a long time, they say; and she died when I was born.”