And yet Bardon was not considered a bad man nor was he such as the word is commonly understood. He was an honest, upright man; a steady friend, an earnest patriot, one who felt for the sufferings of the poor, though he had little power to relieve them. And Bardon was to a certain extent religious, at least in his own opinion. He read and venerated his Bible, constantly attended his church, and had persecution arisen, would have been a martyr of the cause of truth. But Bardon’s religion did not pervade his spirit, it did not leaven his temper. It left him as jealous, irritable, and vindictive, as if he had never heard of a gospel of peace! “In yonder vase replenished by the shower Pour the rich wine; it spreads as it descends, Pervades the whole, and with mysterious power To every drop its hue and sweetness lends! Thus should religion’s influence serene Be felt in all our thoughts, in all our actions seen!” But it was not thus with Timon Bardon. He could repeat the Lord’s prayer,—did repeat it twice every day, without once starting at the thought, that he was in it constantly invoking a curse on his own vindictive soul! Forgive us our trespasses, _as we forgive them that trespass against us_! Was that a prayer for one who treasured up the memory of a wrong far more jealously than that of a benefit? for one who prided himself on being “a good hater;” and who spoke of “the sweetness of revenge?” Bardon reprobated with indignation the mean vices of covetousness, falsehood, or fraud,—he was ready to call down fire from heaven on the tyrant, the traitor, or the thief; but he granted, in his own person, a plenary indulgence, a perfect tolerance to pride, hatred, malice, revenge—sins as destructive to the soul as the darkest of those which he condemned. Bardon was too poor to be a subscriber to the —— Magazine; but he was always allowed a reading of that which was taken in at the Vicarage, and, indeed, Aumerle, though his friend little guessed the fact, subscribed chiefly on account of the doctor. But Bardon was far too impatient to know whether the countess had written in this Number, to endure waiting for a second day’s reading. He did not choose to go to the Vicarage to betray his eagerness there, but he resolved to walk the whole six miles to Pelton, in order to purchase a copy for himself. “You must have pressing business indeed at the town, papa, to walk so far in the sun on such a warm day as this!” cried Cecilia in a tone of expostulation, as she fanned herself with a languid air. “I’m sure that the heat will kill you.” “Not so easily killed,” said the doctor gaily; “there’s nothing like air and exercise for keeping a man in health.” “You have received a call to some patient?” said Cecilia, encouraged by his cheerfulness to venture upon a subject which was usually forbidden, for Bardon’s patients were “few and far between.”