Besides these terrors, he had learned, during his short stay at the Nest, a most unwelcome piece of intelligence. The vicar, Mr. Mills, had shown him a letter from Dr. Lendrick, in which he said that the climate disagreed with him, and his isolation and loneliness preyed upon him so heavily that he had all but determined to resign his place and return home. He added that he had given no intimation of this to his children, lest by any change of plan he might inflict disappointment upon them; nor had he spoken of it to his father, in the fear that if the Chief Baron should offer any strenuous objection, he might be unable to carry out his project; while to his old friend the vicar he owned that his heart yearned after a home, and if it could only be that home where he had lived so contentedly, the Nest! “If I could promise myself to get back there again,” he wrote, “nothing would keep me here a month longer.” Now, as Sewell had advertised the place to be let, Mills at once showed him this letter, believing that the arrangement was such as would suit each of them. It needed all Sewell's habitual self-command not to show the uneasiness these tidings occasioned him. Lendrick's return to Ireland might undo--it was almost certain to undo--all the influence he had obtained over the Chief Baron. The old Judge was never to be relied upon from one day to the next. Now it was some impulse of vindictive passion, now of benevolence. Who was to say when some parental paroxysm might not seize him, and he might begin to care for his son? Here was a new peril,--one he had never so much as imagined might befall him. “I 'll have to consult my wife,” said he, hastily, in reply to Mills's question. “She is not at all pleased at the notion of giving up the place; the children were healthier here: in fact,” added he, in some confusion, “I suspect we shall be back here one of these days.” “I told him I'd have to consult _you_,” said Sewell, with an insolent sneer, as he told his wife this piece of news. “I said you were so fond of the country, so domestic, and so devoted to your children, that I scarcely thought you 'd like to give up a place so suited to all your tastes;--wasn't I right?” She continued to look steadily at the book she had been reading, and made no reply. “I did n't say, though I might, that the spot was endeared to you by a softer, more tender reminiscence; because, being a parson, there 's no saying how he 'd have taken it.” She raised her book higher, so as to conceal her face, but still said nothing. “At all events,” said he, in a more careless tone, “we are not going to add to the inducements which attract this gentleman to return home, and we must not forget that our host here may turn us out at any moment.” “I think it will be our fault whenever he does so,” said she, quietly.