We must return to Arthur Beaufort. He was naturally, though gentle, a person of high spirit and not without pride. He rose from the ground with bitter, resentful feelings and a blushing cheek, and went his way to the hotel. Here he found Mr. Spencer just returned from his visit to Sidney. Enchanted with the soft and endearing manners of his lost Catherine’s son, and deeply affected with the resemblance the child bore to the mother as he had seen her last at the gay and rosy age of fair sixteen, his description of the younger brother drew Beaufort’s indignant thoughts from the elder. He cordially concurred with Mr. Spencer in the wish to save one so gentle from the domination of one so fierce; and this, after all, was the child Catherine had most strongly commended to him. She had said little of the elder; perhaps she had been aware of his ungracious and untractable nature, and, as it seemed to Arthur Beaufort, his predilections for a coarse and low career. “Yes,” said he, “this boy, then, shall console me for the perverse brutality of the other. He shall indeed drink of my cup, and eat of my bread, and be to me as a brother.” “What!” said Mr. Spencer, changing countenance, “you do not intend to take Sidney to live with you. I meant him for my son--my adopted son.” “No; generous as you are,” said Arthur, pressing his hand, “this charge devolves on me--it is my right. I am the orphan’s relation--his mother consigned him to me. But he shall be taught to love you not the less.” Mr. Spencer was silent. He could not bear the thought of losing Sidney as an inmate of his cheerless home, a tender relic of his early love. From that moment he began to contemplate the possibility of securing Sidney to himself, unknown to Beaufort. The plans both of Arthur and Spencer were interrupted by the sudden retreat of the brothers. They determined to depart different ways in search of them. Spencer, as the more helpless of the two, obtained the aid of Mr. Sharp; Beaufort departed with the lawyer. Two travellers, in a hired barouche, were slowly dragged by a pair of jaded posters along the commons I have just described. “I think,” said one, “that the storm is very much abated; heigho! what an unpleasant night!” “Unkimmon ugly, sir,” answered the other; “and an awful long stage, eighteen miles. These here remote places are quite behind the age, sir--quite. However, I think we shall kitch them now.” “I am very much afraid of that eldest boy, Sharp. He seems a dreadful vagabond.” “You see, sir, quite hand in glove with Dashing Jerry; met in the same inn last night--preconcerted, you may be quite shure. It would be the best day’s job I have done this many a day to save that ‘ere little fellow from being corrupted. You sees he is just of a size to be useful to these bad karakters. If they took to burglary, he would be a treasure to them--slip him through a pane of glass like a ferret, sir.”