was less handsome than Philip, but the expression of his face was more prepossessing. There was something of pride in the forehead; but of good nature, not unmixed with irresolution and weakness, in the curves of the mouth. He was more delicate of frame than Philip; and the colour of his complexion was not that of a robust constitution. His movements were graceful and self-possessed, and he had his father’s sweetness of voice. “This is really beautiful!--I envy you, cousin Philip.” “Has not your father got a country-house?” “No: we live either in London or at some hot, crowded watering-place.” “Yes; this is very nice during the shooting and hunting season. But my old nurse says we shall have a much finer place now. I liked this very well till I saw Lord Belville’s place. But it is very unpleasant not to have the finest house in the county: _aut Caesar aut nullus_--that’s my motto. Ah! do you see that swallow? I’ll bet you a guinea I hit it.” “No, poor thing! don’t hurt it.” But ere the remonstrance was uttered, the bird lay quivering on the ground. “It is just September, and one must keep one’s hand in,” said Philip, as he reloaded his gun. To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruelty; it was rather the wanton recklessness which belongs to a wild boy accustomed to gratify the impulse of the moment--the recklessness which is not cruelty in the boy, but which prosperity may pamper into cruelty in the man. And scarce had he reloaded his gun before the neigh of a young colt came from the neighbouring paddock, and Philip bounded to the fence. “He calls me, poor fellow; you shall see him feed from my hand. Run in for a piece of bread--a large piece, Sidney.” The boy and the animal seemed to understand each other. “I see you don’t like horses,” he said to Arthur. “As for me, I love dogs, horses--every dumb creature.” “Except swallows.” said Arthur, with a half smile, and a little surprised at the inconsistency of the boast. “Oh! that is short,--all fair: it is not to hurt the swallow--it is to obtain skill,” said Philip, colouring; and then, as if not quite easy with his own definition, he turned away abruptly. “This is dull work--suppose we fish. By Jove!” (he had caught his father’s expletive) “that blockhead has put the tent on the wrong side of the lake, after all. Holla, you, sir!” and the unhappy gardener looked up from his flower-beds; “what ails you? I have a great mind to tell my father of you--you grow stupider every day. I told you to put the tent under the lime-trees.” “We could not manage it, sir; the boughs were in the way.” “And why did you not cut the boughs, blockhead?” “I did not dare do so, sir, without master’s orders,” said the man doggedly. “My orders are sufficient, I should think; so none of your impertinence,” cried Philip, with a raised colour; and lifting his hand, in which he held his ramrod, he shook it menacingly over the gardener’s head,--“I’ve a great mind to----”