life, very comfortable in all its circumstances, having succeeded in working out just the perfection of detail, the harmony of movement that satisfied him, it was a vexing and unpleasant reflection that this life was to be disturbed, broken in upon, brought to a conclusion by illness and death. Sometimes the thought made him almost angry. Why? He was not, to be sure, so strong as he once was, but he was strong enough for all reasonable purposes, as strong as he required to be; and he had all his wits about him. Never had he been more clear-headed; and every sort of inclination to do things that were not good for him, whether in the way of eating or drinking, or other practices of a more strictly moral or immoral character had died out of his mind. He knew how to take care of himself exactly, and he did take the greatest care of himself. Why should he die? It was an idea that annoyed him. It seemed so unnecessary: he was not weary of life, nor had he the least desire to give it up. In such circumstances there had been a lurking feeling in his mind that Providence should know how to discriminate. But there was no telling how long Providence might choose to discriminate: and this recollection was about the only disturbing influence in a life so comfortable and well proportioned, and altogether satisfactory, that there seemed no reason whatever that it should ever come to an end. “Mr. Harry here? How did he get here at such an hour in the morning? Why, he must have started in the middle of the night.” “I make no doubt of that,” said the housekeeper. She had brought up a second kidney, piping hot, and tender as a baby, upon a piece of toast, so crisp yet so melting, so brown and savoury, so penetrated by generous juices that it was in itself a luxury; “and for that and other things I have made him lie down upon his bed. He’s not been in a bed this night, that’s clear to see; he’s sleeping like a babe in a cradle; it does the heart good to see him.” “I don’t think it would do my heart good,” said Mr. Henry, “the young fellow must have been up to some mischief. Did he give you any idea of what was the matter? or is it mere nonsense, perhaps a bet, or a brag, or something of that sort?” “Mere nonsense--nay, nay, Sir, it’s not that. He’s got a look on his face--a look I have seen on your own face, Sir, when you are put out.” “I’ve told you a hundred times, Mrs. Eadie, there is not the slightest resemblance between Mr. Harry and me.” “And how are you to tell that, Sir, that canna see the two together? You are far more clever than me in most things; but my eyesight I must trust to.” Mrs. Eadie made a little curtsey when she opposed her master. She had a conviction that it gave him a secret pleasure, though he would never confess it, to hear that Harry was like him; and perhaps she was right. “Have your own way,” he said; “but that makes no difference to the question. What’s wrong? has he said nothing to you? You used to be great friends.”