“The other place, Ned,” said Sir Harry, “an’t such as I could desire for a Carlyon of Ellswether. Mr Sternhold is so good as to say that he will find you work as his clerk, and although you should at the first receive nothing by way of wage, yet afterwards, I make no doubt, you may rise to wealth. The lawyers have gained much by the troubles of these days, and stand to gain much more. Still, what say you?” I need scarce say to you that I had not to think for long. When the choice lay between the Indies and Mr Sternhold’s clerkship (the which, as I well knew, should never have been proffered by him had not my father asked it), you won’t wonder that I sprang joyfully at my lord duke his offer. Which also did hugely please my father, he saying that he was glad to find he had a son that would show himself no laggard in seeking to repair the fortunes of his house. And before aught else in the next morning, my father writ to the aforesaid nobleman to signify his grateful acceptance of his singular kindness, I myself also writing to express my duty to his grace and my desire to comport myself suitably in that place he destined for me. And this letter wrote, and set in readiness for my Lord Harmarthwaite’s messenger, that was, by the especial kindness of his lordship, to carry it to London, and there deliver it into his grace’s hands, I found time to consider what great change in my manner of life one day had brought. For but yesterday was I a masterless man (saving, of course, the authority of that my good father), too old for school, and yet without a calling, but to-day I was pledged to the Hon. East India Company, the which was now my master. And notwithstanding the joy that was in my heart, that I should at last have good hope of freeing my father’s estates, in process of time, from the burdens that oppressed them, there come upon me some natural sorrow that I must part from my good father, and from Dorothy, that quarrelled with me and loved me as she had been indeed my sister. Standing on the staircase in some disquiet, and thinking thus with myself, there came running to me on a sudden my said little cousin Dorothy herself, dressed up mighty fine in a laced waistcoat[4] and petticoat of white satin, with cherry-coloured knots, and cried laughing to me, all our quarrels forgot-- “Why so sad and solemn, Cousin Ned? Do you see my new gown? How doth it please you?” “Why so fine, little lady, rather let me ask?” says I, bowing low, lest she should again reproach me of lack of courtesy. “Mrs Skipwith hath ripped a gown of my mother’s, and made this for me,” says she. “Come with me to the picture-room, Cousin Ned. I would have you tell me whether I am like my mother.” So we two to the oaken gallery, where Dorothy held me by the hand, and we stood before the portraits of my Lord and Lady Brandon, he in his harness,[5] with a battlefield behind him, and she in her wedding-gown.