By this time surely his father’s visit to the palace would be well over, and the consent won? He sprang to his feet, shouldered his rod, and, with a glance at the fish he had caught, closed the basket, resolving to carry it to old Durdle, the housekeeper, for Mrs. Unett’s breakfast. As he walked through the fields he whistled, “Phyllis on the New Mown Hay,” for sheer light-heartedness, and had some difficulty in pacing gravely through the streets when he reached the city. Old Nat, the sailor, meeting him in High Town, noticed his blithe face. “Good e’en to you, sir,” he said, “you’re looking piert and heartful. Have ye had good luck?” “Ay!” he replied, “it has been a lucky day with me. Look!” and he opened the basket. “You must have one of these fellows for your supper.” With a cheery “Good night!” he passed on, leaving the old sailor divided between admiration of the trout and its donor. “Takes after his father, he does,” muttered the old man, “an open hand and a good heart. But it’ll go hard with him in times like these, for he’s independent, and none too fond of knocking under to great folk.” Twilight reigned in the house when Gabriel closed the front door behind him, but a streak of lamp-light came from the region of the study-door, and on entering the room he found his father and mother gravely discussing an open letter. Something in their faces struck a chill to his heart. “Did you see the Bishop, sir?” he asked, eagerly. “Sit down, lad,” said the doctor, pointing to a chair by the table which his patients were wont to occupy while he interviewed them. “Yes, I saw him; our talk was not satisfactory. Still, I would not have you lose heart altogether.” The reaction from the morning was too great, however. Gabriel turned deathly white; he could not frame his lips to the question he longed, yet dreaded to put. The pain carried him back curiously to a former scene in that very room, when in an agony of nervous anticipation he had waited for the hot iron to be put on his mangled arm, and again he seemed to hear the words: “Nothing could daunt Sir John Eliot; cost what it might, he was ever true!” With an effort he pulled himself together. “May I hear, sir, what actually passed?” he said. And the doctor hastened to tell him all, then placed Mrs. Unett’s letter in his hands. It was a kind, incoherent, weak letter, but Gabriel saw with relief that the writer did not at all favour the suit of Mr. Geers of Garnons. His mother, however, quickly dispelled what little consolation he had gained. There had never been much love lost between the two ladies. “Never mind, my son,” she said. “In my opinion, you are very well out of the whole affair. Hilary is an only daughter, and has been spoilt and indulged by an over-fond parent, till she thinks everything must give way to her whims. Depend upon it, she would have been ill to live with.”