attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed—almost on terms of familiarity—with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. ‘Pity,’ he added, ‘that when old—old as I am now—he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son’s bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl’s; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time.’ ‘Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you.’ ‘Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?’ ‘No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don’t be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben.’ ‘You are a strange lad,’ said my father; ‘and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don’t you know that it is one of my temptations: you wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities—something about him. I will tell you—his—skin when he flung off his clothes—and he had a particular knack in doing so—his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and when he fought he stood, so . . . if I remember right—his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here.’ CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT MY BROTHER’S ARRIVAL—A DYING FATHER—CHRIST At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. ‘You have been long absent,’ said I. ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘perhaps too long; but how is my father?’ ‘Very poorly,’ said I, ‘he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?’ ‘Far and wide,’ said my brother; ‘but I can’t tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness.’ ‘Stay a moment,’ said I. ‘Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?’ ‘Not quite,’ said my brother, ‘not quite; indeed I wish—but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father.’