There was a time, as late as his own father’s day, when Messrs. Cane and Company would not have written such a letter. Not a few of the broad acres of the Luttrells had passed into their hands since that, however. They had not their country-houses and conservatories in those days; nor their sons in the “Guards;” nor a daughter married to a Viscount. How is it that men will often grow more bitter over their fallen fortunes, when they contrast them with the prosperity of others who have never injured them? Cane had actually befriended Luttrell in many ways; in keeping the agency of the small remnant of property that belonged to him, he was really performing a kind office; but Luttrell could not, for all this, forgive him for being prosperous. He sat down to write two notes, one to Mr. Cane, a very sharp reproof, for a liberty which he ought never to have presumed upon, and which nothing, in their respective conditions, could warrant or excuse. “While,” added he, “I am no less surprised at your remark, that you are even more than myself aware of my need of money. The observation either implies a sensitive sympathy for which I was not prepared, or a covert impertinence which I hesitate to accept as credible. “I will not receive your friend Mr. Dodge, nor shall I again trouble you with the private and personal interests of “Your faithful servant, “John Hamilton Luttrell.” The second note was even briefer. “Mr. Luttrell begs to inform Mr. H. M. Dodge that he cannot receive his visit at Arran, nor can he at present decide to dispose of his collection.” “How is the wind, Hennesy?” asked he of his boatman. “Strong from the east, Sir, and comin’ on harder.” “Could you beat up to Westport, think you? I have two letters of importance to send.” “We might, Sir,” said the man, doubtingly, “but its more likely we’d be blown out to sea.” “How long is this gale likely to last?” “It’s the season of these winds, your honour, and we’ll have, maybe, three weeks or a month of them, now.” “In that case, you must try it. Take three men with you, and the large yawl; put some provisions and water on board; perhaps a little ballast, too.” “That we will, Sir. She’ll take a ton more, at least, to carry sail in this weather.” “Are you afraid to go?” asked Luttrell, and his voice was harsh, and his manner stern. “Afraid! devil a bit afraid!” said the man, boldly, and as though the imputation had made him forget his natural respect. “I’d not ask you to do what I’d not venture on myself.” “We all know that well, Sir,” said the boatman, recovering his former manner. “‘Tis only that, maybe, we’ll be more time about it than your honour thinks. We’ll have to make a long stretch out beyond Spanish Bay, perhaps, near ‘the Cobbles.’”