“I have a half-finished model,” said the youth, not without a certain irritation at the indifference of his questioner. “Scarcely light enough to look at it to-night,--eh, Baynton?” “Scarcely!” was the dry answer. “We can go in the morning though, eh?” The other nodded a cool assent. My lord now filled his glass, drank it off, and refilled, with the air of a man nerving himself for a great undertaking,--and such was indeed the case. He was about to deliver himself of a sentiment, and the occasion was one to which Baynton could not lend his assistance. “I have been thinking,” said he, “that if that same estate we spoke of, Baynton,--that Welsh property, you know, and that thing in Ireland,--should fall in, I 'd buy some statues and have a gallery!” “Devilish costly work you'd find it,” muttered Baynton. “Well, I suppose it is,--not more so than a racing stable, after all.” “Perhaps not.” “Besides, I look upon that property--if it does ever come to me--as a kind of windfall; it was one of those pieces of fortune one could n't have expected, you know.” Then, turning towards the youth, as if to apologize for a discussion in which he could take no part, he said, “We were talking of a property which, by the eccentricity of its owner, may one day become mine.” “And which doubtless some other had calculated on inheriting,” said the youth. “Well, that may be very true; I never thought about that,--eh, Baynton?” “Why should you?” was the short response. “Gain and loss, loss and gain,” muttered the youth, moodily, “are the laws of life.” “I say, Baynton, what a jolly moonlight there is out there in the garden! Would n't it be a capital time this to see your model, eh?” “If you are disposed to take the trouble,” said the youth, rising, and blushing modestly; and the others stood up at the same moment. Nothing passed between them as they followed the young sculptor through many an intricate by-way and narrow lane, and at last reached the little stream on whose bank stood his studio. “What have we here!” exclaimed Baynton as he saw it; “is this a little temple?” “It is my workshop,” said the boy, proudly, and produced the key to open the door. Scarcely had he crossed the threshold, however, than his foot struck a roll of papers, and, stooping down, he caught up a large placard, headed, “Morte al Tiranno,” in large capitals. Holding the sheet up to the moonlight, he saw that it contained a violent and sanguinary appeal to the wildest passions of the Carbonari,--one of those savage exhortations to bloodshedding which were taken from the terrible annals of the French Revolution. Some of these bore the picture of the guillotine at top, others were headed with cross poniards. “What are all these about?” asked Baynton, as he took up three or four of them in his hand; but the youth, overcome with terror, could make no answer. “These are all _sans-culotte_ literature, I take it,” said his Lordship; but the youth was stupefied and silent.