“I’m a clergyman or I’d say something stronger than that. What’s a young fellow like you want cooped up in a garret reading that rubbish, beautiful rubbish, if you like, but still rubbish, and making matters ten thousand times worse by drinking liquid damnation at three-and-six a bottle; up here, I say, in a garret, mooning over a lot of verses and soaking yourself with poison, when all around you there’s work to be done, man’s work, God’s work, and none too many to do it. What’s wrong with you, Beaumont, what’s wrong, say?” “Everything’s wrong. You know, of course, how I came a mucker up yonder. Well, I’ve cared for nothing since, but just to get a crust of bread, and as much of that stuff as the money’ll run to.” “Wasn’t there a girl in the case. Hadn’t you her to live for if nothing and nobody else?” “Oh! yes, there was a girl, if it comes to that. But when the smash came she very promptly declined to permit me to ‘live for her,’ as you put it. See, look here, you can read my letters of dismissal, if you care to. Short and sweet, like a donkey’s gallop, I call ’em.” And Beaumont took from a drawer and threw upon the table two letters: “The Vicarage, Caistorholm, Lincs. February, 188 “DEAR MR. BEAUMONT,— I am exceedingly distressed to learn of your misfortune. You will do me the justice to remember that I gave only a reluctant and conditional assent to my daughter’s engagement to you. Of course that must now be absolutely and finally broken. I trust the dear girl may be given strength to bear this fearful trial, and I hope that your future may be brighter than present prospects indicate. Yours faithfully, HUGH ST. CLAIR.” “The Vicarage, Caistorholm. “DEAR EDWARD,— Papa insists that I endorse his words. What else can I do? I am so sorry, but there seems no other way. And, after all, I’m sure I should not have made you the wife you ought to have. With best wishes, ELEANOR ST. CLAIR.” “Humph!” said the Rev. Denis Caird. “There’s nothing lacking on the score of lucidity anyway. Anything else?” “Merely this,” said Edward, bitterly, as he handed a newspaper to his visitor. “A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly be solemnised, between Mr. George Wright, of Thoresby Manor, Lincs, and Eleanor, only child of the Very Reverend Archdeacon St. Clair, of Caistorholm Vicarage, Lincs.” “Ah, well!” said Mr. Denis; “there’s an end of that chapter anyway.”