When Catherine, in her meek tones, had said, “Philip Beaufort was my husband,” Roger Morton had disbelieved her. And now one word from the son, who could, in comparison, know so little of the matter, had almost sufficed to convert and to convince the sceptic. Why was this? Because--Man believes the Strong! CHAPTER II. “--Quid Virtus et quid Sapientia possit Utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulssem.” HOR. [“He has proposed to us Ulysses as a useful example of how much may be accomplished by Virtue and Wisdom.”] Meanwhile the object of their search, on quitting Mr. Morton’s shop, had walked slowly and sadly on, through the plashing streets, till he came to a public house in the outskirts and on the high road to London. Here he took shelter for a short time, drying himself by the kitchen fire, with the license purchased by fourpenny-worth of gin; and having learned that the next coach to London would not pass for some hours, he finally settled himself in the Ingle, till the guard’s horn should arouse him. By the same coach that the night before had conveyed Philip to N----, had the very man he sought been also a passenger! The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out: he had settled into a doze, when he was suddenly wakened by the wheels of a coach and the trampling of horses. Not knowing how long he had slept, and imagining that the vehicle he had awaited was at the door, he ran out. It was a coach coming from London, and the driver was joking with a pretty barmaid who, in rather short petticoats, was fielding up to him the customary glass. The man, after satisfying himself that his time was not yet come, was turning back to the fire, when a head popped itself out of the window, and a voice cried, “Stars and garters! Will--so that’s you!” At the sound of the voice the man halted abruptly, turned very pale, and his limbs trembled. The inside passenger opened the door, jumped out with a little carpet-bag in his hand, took forth a long leathern purse from which he ostentatiously selected the coins that paid his fare and satisfied the coachman, and then, passing his arm through that of the acquaintance he had discovered, led him back into the house. “Will--Will,” he whispered, “you have been to the Mortons. Never moind--let’s hear all. Jenny or Dolly, or whatever your sweet praetty name is--a private room and a pint of brandy, my dear. Hot water and lots of the grocery. That’s right.” And as soon as the pair found themselves, with the brandy before them, in a small parlour with a good fire, the last comer went to the door, shut it cautiously, flung his bag under the table, took off his gloves, spread himself wider and wider before the fire, until he had entirely excluded every ray from his friend, and then suddenly turning so that the back might enjoy what the front had gained, he exclaimed. “Damme, Will, you’re a praetty sort of a broather to give me the slip in that way. But in this world every man for his-self!”