other; and perhaps the talent of diplomacy for which, years afterwards, I obtained some applause, was first learnt in my skirmishing warfare with the Abbe Montreuil. At last, the evening before we quitted school for good arrived. Aubrey had just left me for solitary prayers, and I was sitting alone by my fire, when Montreuil entered gently. He sat himself down by me, and, after giving me the salutation of the evening, sank into a silence which I was the first to break. “Pray, Abbe,” said I, “have one’s years anything to do with one’s age?” The priest was accustomed to the peculiar tone of my sagacious remarks, and answered dryly,-- “Mankind in general imagine that they have.” “Faith, then,” said I, “mankind know very little about the matter. To-day I am at school, and a boy; to-morrow I leave school; if I hasten to town I am presented at court; and lo! I am a man; and this change within half-a-dozen changes of the sun! therefore, most reverend father, I humbly opine that age is measured by events, not years.” “And are you not happy at the idea of passing the age of thraldom, and seeing arrayed before you the numberless and dazzling pomps and pleasures of the great world?” said Montreuil, abruptly, fixing his dark and keen eye upon me. “I have not yet fully made up my mind whether to be happy or not,” said I, carelessly. “It is a strange answer;” said the priest; “but” (after a pause) “you are a strange youth: a character that resembles a riddle is at your age uncommon, and, pardon me, unamiable. Age, naturally repulsive, requires a mask; and in every wrinkle you may behold the ambush of a scheme: but the heart of youth should be open as its countenance! However, I will not weary you with homilies; let us change the topic. Tell me, Morton, do you repent having turned your attention of late to those graver and more systematic studies which can alone hereafter obtain you distinction?” “No, father,” said I, with a courtly bow, “for the change has gained me your good opinion.” A smile, of peculiar and undefinable expression, crossed the thin lips of the priest; he rose, walked to the door, and saw that it was carefully closed. I expected some important communication, but in vain; pacing the small room to and fro, as if in a musing mood, the Abbe remained silent, till, pausing opposite some fencing foils, which among various matters (books, papers, quoits, etc.) were thrown idly in one corner of the room, he said,-- “They tell me that you are the best fencer in the school--is it so?” “I hope not, for fencing is an accomplishment in which Gerald is very nearly my equal,” I replied. “You run, ride, leap, too, better than any one else, according to the votes of your comrades?” “It is a noble reputation,” said I, “in which I believe I am only excelled by our huntsman’s eldest son.”