“Well, now,” said his host, while a slight blush rose to his cheeks, “I will tell you, that though to my father’s sternness and avarice I attribute many of my faults, I yet always had a sort of love for him; and when in London I accidentally heard that he was growing blind, and living with an artful old jade of a housekeeper, who might send him to rest with a dose of magnesia the night after she had coaxed him to make a will in her favour. I sought him out--and--but you say you heard what passed.” “Yes; and I heard him also call you by name, when it was too late, and I saw the tears on his cheeks.” “Did you? Will you swear to that?” exclaimed Gawtrey, with vehemence: then, shading his brow with his band, he fell into a reverie that lasted some moments. “If anything happen to me, Philip,” he said, abruptly, “perhaps he may yet be a father to poor Fanny; and if he takes to her, she will repay him for whatever pain I may, perhaps, have cost him. Stop! now I think of it, I will write down his address for you--never forget it--there! It is time to go to bed.” Gawtrey’s tale made a deep impression on Philip. He was too young, too inexperienced, too much borne away by the passion of the narrator, to see that Gawtrey had less cause to blame Fate than himself. True, he had been unjustly implicated in the disgrace of an unworthy uncle, but he had lived with that uncle, though he knew him to be a common cheat; true, he had been betrayed by a friend, but he had before known that friend to be a man without principle or honour. But what wonder that an ardent boy saw nothing of this--saw only the good heart that had saved a poor girl from vice, and sighed to relieve a harsh and avaricious parent? Even the hints that Gawtrey unawares let fall of practices scarcely covered by the jovial phrase of “a great schoolboy’s scrapes,” either escaped the notice of Philip, or were charitably construed by him, in the compassion and the ignorance of a young, hasty, and grateful heart. CHAPTER IV. “And she’s a stranger Women--beware women.”--MIDDLETON. “As we love our youngest children best, So the last fruit of our affection, Wherever we bestow it, is most strong; Since ‘tis indeed our latest harvest-home, Last merriment ‘fore winter!” WEBSTER, Devil’s Law Case. “I would fain know what kind of thing a man’s heart is? I will report it to you; ‘tis a thing framed With divers corners!”--ROWLEY.