“But I know you better than you know yourself, and I repeat it. You 'd say, 'Gorman O'Shea, I 'm not the man to see a first-rate fellow lost for a beggarly five hundred. I 'd rather be able to say one of these days, “Look at that man on the Woolsack,--or, maybe, Chief Justice in the Queen's Bench--well, would you believe it? if I hadn't helped him one morning with a few hundreds, it's maybe in the Serpentine he 'd have been, instead of up there.”' And as we 'd sit over a bottle of hock in the bay-window at Richmond, you 'd say, 'Does your Lordship remember the night when you heard the House was up, and you had n't as much as would pay your fare over to Ireland?'” “I'm not so certain of _that_, either,” was the dry response of Heathcote. “And of what _are_ you certain, then?” cried O'Shea, angrily; “for I begin to believe you trust nothing, nor any one.” “I 'll tell you what I believe, and believe firmly too,--which is, that a pair of fellows so completely out at elbows as you and myself had far better break stones on a highroad for a shilling a day than stand cudgelling their wits how to live upon others.” “That is not my sentiment at all,--_suum cuique_,--stone-breaking to the hard-handed; men of our stamp, Heathcote, have a right--a vested right-- to a smoother existence.” “Well, time will tell who is right,” said Heathcote, carelessly, as he put on his hat and walked to the door. A half-cold good-bye followed, and they parted. Hour after hour he walked the streets, unmindful of a thin misty rain that fell unceasingly. He was now completely alone in the world, and there was a sort of melancholy pleasure in the sense of his desolation. “My poor father!” he would mutter from time to time; “if I could only think that he would forget me! if I could but bring myself to believe that after a time he would cease to sorrow for me!” He did not dare to utter more, nor even to himself declare how valueless he deemed life, but strolled listlessly onward, till the gray streaks in the murky sky proclaimed the approach of morning. Was it with some vague purpose or was it by mere accident that he found himself standing at last near the barracks at Knightsbridge, around the gate of which a group of country-looking young fellows was gathered, while here and there a sergeant was seen to hover, as if speculating on his prey? It was a time in which more than one young man of station had enlisted as a private, and the sharp eye of the crimp Boon scanned the upright stature and well-knit frame of Heathcote. “Like to be a dragoon, my man?” said he, with an easy, swaggering air. “I have some thought of it,” said the other, coldly. “You 've served already, I suspect,” said the sergeant, in a more respectful tone. “For what regiment are you enlisting?” asked Heathcote, coldly, disregarding the other's inquiry. “Her Majesty's Bays,--could you ask better? But here's my officer.”