“There is nothing more delusive than arguing from a fellow’s school or collegiate successes to his triumphs in after life. The first are purely intellectual struggles; but the real battle of life is fought out by tact, and temper, and courage, and readiness, and fifty other things, that have no distinct bearing on mind. Your man there would have failed just as egregiously amongst gentlemen as he has done amongst the ‘canaille’ that he descended to. He had failure written on his passport when he started in life.” “I don’t believe it; I can’t believe it.” “Your sister-in-law, I think, never married?” “No. She has refused some excellent offers, and has declared she never will marry.” “How like a woman all that! She first mars a man’s fortune, and, by way of a reparation, she destroys her own. That is such feminine logic!” “Is that a dog they have got in the bow of the launch, yonder?” said Vyner, directing the captain’s attention to one of the boats of the yacht that was now pulling briskly out from the land. “Well, Sir, as well as I can make out, it’s a child,” said he, as he drew the telescope from the slings, and began to adjust it. “Yes, Sir, it’s a native they have caught, and a wild-looking specimen too;” and he handed the glass to Vyner. “Poor little fellow! He seems dressed in rabbit-skins. Where is Ada? She must see him.” CHAPTER IV. ON BOARD. “It was not an easy matter to get him to come, Sir,” said the sailor in a whisper to Vyner, as he assisted the boy to get on the deck. “Where did you find him?” “Sitting all alone on that rocky point yonder, Sir; he seemed to have been crying, and we suspect he has run away from home.” Vyner now turned to look at the child, who all this while stood calm and composed, amazed, it is true, by all he saw around him, yet never suffering his curiosity to surprise him into a word of astonishment. In age from ten to twelve, he was slightly though strongly built, and carried himself erect as a soldier. The dress which Vyner at first thought was entirely made of skins was only in reality trimmed with these, being an attempt to make the clothes he had long worn sufficiently large for him. His cap alone was of true island make, and was a conical contrivance of undressed seal-skin, which really had as savage a look as need be. “Do you live on this island, my little fellow?” asked Vyner, with a kindly accent. “Yes,” said he, calmly, as he looked up full into his face. “And have you always lived here?” “So long as I remember.” “Where do you live?” “On the other side of the mountain--at St. Finbar’s Abbey.” “May I ask your name?” “My name,” said the boy, proudly, “is Harry Grenville Luttrell.” “Are you a Luttrell?” cried Vyner, as he laid his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulders; but the little fellow seemed not to like the familiarity, and stepped back to escape it. “Are you the son of John Hamilton Luttrell?” “Yes. What is your name?”