“You might not be listened to all at once,” said Abner, as the young man paused; “but neither will the people listen all at once. You say yourself it will take a generation, perhaps two or three, to accomplish what should be done. Suppose those generations were given to the other attempt--the striving to work upon the hearts of those in high places to study the needs of the land, and do justly by its humbler sons, might not there be hopes of a better result? I am but an unlettered man; I am scarce fit to dispute with you; but I think I know the nature of the classes you wish to see holding power, and I should not desire to be ruled by them.” “Well, well, we must agree to differ in some things, I see,” said Eustace, rising with a smile, and holding out his hand in token of good-fellowship; “all this sounds strange and sudden to you. Men’s minds have to grow into new ideas. But at least you love your people--in that we are agreed; and you would fain see them raised, and their condition improved, if it could be achieved. In that at least we agree. So we will part friends, and not oppose each other, even though we each see the shield on a different side.” Abner’s smile was pleasant to see, and Eustace sauntered away, a little disappointed perhaps--for Abner’s look of intellect had made him hope to win a disciple here--but pleased and interested in the man, and by no means despairing of winning him at last. A few days later the Duke spoke to him upon a subject of keen interest to him. Both the Duke and his daughter had kept themselves very much secluded since the funeral, as was rather the custom of the day, although in their case it was real broken-hearted sorrow which held them aloof from all the world at this juncture. But February came with sunshine and soft south winds, and the old nobleman began to resume his ordinary habits, and was pleased in his silent way to have a companion in Eustace. The young kinsman was sincerely attached to the head of his house, and his quick sympathies were aroused to real tenderness for him in his great sorrow. He had hitherto avoided any sort of speech that could possibly raise any irritation in the Duke’s mind. Their talk had been of a subdued and quiet kind, so that nothing had arisen to disturb the harmony that existed between them. Yet Eustace knew that he and his kinsman differed widely in thought and opinion, and that some day this divergence must appear in their talk. He meant to be very moderate and reasonable in all he might be forced to say, but to hide his views either from cowardice or motives of policy was a thing abhorrent to his nature, and could not be contemplated for a moment. The first note of warning was struck one day when the pair were riding together across a stretch of bleak down. The Duke suddenly looked at his companion and asked-- “Do you ever think of standing for Parliament, Eustace?” The young man flushed quickly.