“And give him the fruits of all my reading,” Arthur muttered angrily, “of all I learned at the Hartz; tell him how to proceed, and leave myself a beggar. No!” he said, “I will never see him. As to this miserable little weed,” he continued, tearing the broom to pieces, and casting the fragments contemptuously into the fire; “it is nothing; you are mad to have given up your butterflies to betake yourself to such a ridiculous pursuit as this. Don’t go there any more--there!” (here he stamped on it with his foot) “How damp it is! the fire has little power.” “You never take any interest, Arthur, in anything I do. I don’t know, I’m sure, how I’ve offended you. As to the broom, I know it’s a poor common thing, but I thought the way its roots were loaded rather odd. Ellen will perhaps be disappointed, for we intended to plant it in her garden, and I only asked her to let me show it to you, it struck me as being so very curious. Come, give up your books and learning for a day. We must leave this for Oxford in a week, and I wish you to know more of the Warleighs before we go.” “I am not going back to Oxford,” said Arthur, “I shall take my name off the books.” Winnington was astonished. He was also displeased. “We promised to visit my aunt,” he said, “on our way back to college--Lucy will be grieved and disappointed.” “I will send a letter by you--I shall explain it all--I owe her a letter already.” “Have you not answered that letter yet? it came a month ago,” said Winnington. “Oh! if Ellen Warleigh would write a note to me, and let me write to her, how I would wait for her letters! how I would answer them from morn to night.” “She would find you a rather troublesome correspondent,” said Arthur, watching the disappearance of the last particle of the broom as it leaped merrily in sparkles up the chimney. “Lucy knows that I am better employed than telling her ten times over, that I love her better than anything else-- and that I long for wealth principally that it may enable me to call her mine. I shall have it soon. Tell her to be sure of that. I shall be of age in three days, then the wretched driblet my guardian now has charge of comes into my hands; I will multiply it a thousand-fold--and then--” “The palace will be built,” said Winnington, who could not keep anger long, “and the place at your right hand will be got ready for the resident physician--who in the meantime recommends you to go quietly to bed, for you have overstrung your mind with work, and your health, dear Arthur, is not at all secure.”