Mr. Eversley had thought for some months past that his son’s relation to himself was not exactly what it had been. Had he been asked, he could not have told anyone what the change was; it was not visible, but he felt it, and instinct is a truer judge of sympathy than induction can be. It was the feeling of a haze or darkness rising between him and the object of his love, the sort of feeling that a man has when his eyesight, which has always been so sure, begins to fail, as Sir Joshua Reynolds felt in painting Lady Beauchamp’s portrait; only the darkness was of the soul, not of the vision. It was as if Gerald had always something to tell him and could not tell it, or could tell it but would not. That was the secret of his cautious, guarded letter, which Gerald could not help resenting, about the examination paper. He did not like to make the admission, he would not have made it in answer to a challenge; but it was not now utterly incredible to him (though most improbable) that his son should cherish a silent consciousness of a deceitful action. One secret, even if it be a guilty one, is perhaps no great thing. How many of us have more, or had more when we were of Gerald’s age! What sudden rendings and convulsions of intimacies would there be if the secrets of hearts could be unsealed! And yet if between two human hearts there has been no reticence, no disguise; if each has been open to the other as the merry earth lies open to the sunshine----. There passes a cloud before the face of the sun in the heaven, it endures but for a moment, and it is gone, but the earth is conscious of its chillness. Mr. Eversley reasoned with himself that he was making too much of trifles. If there had been any definite overt mark of altered sentiment, he would have written, perhaps, or spoken to Gerald about it; but he could not say it was so. They were still father and son, still all that father and son should be to each other. Why, then, did Mr. Eversley look so often at the daguerreotype upon the desk in his study and sigh? Human nature has its presentiments of good and evil; how irrational they are! and how infallible! Does a lover need to be told in words that he is loved? Nay, love is a fire, it cannot burn and glow unfelt. Heaven have mercy upon him who searches for it and finds not its glad warmth!