imperfections of those it is interested in, he never exercised more self-denial in his life than that which he showed during this walk, in restraining an exhortation to his nephew in respect to his bearing and deportment; while his kind imagination went to work directly, to contrive expedients, and inducements, and hints for Horace's benefit, to lead him to perceive his own deficiencies and adopt means to correct them, without wounding his feelings or his pride. While Colonel Sutherland occupied himself with these reflections, Horace, totally unconscious of criticisms upon himself, which would have stung his self-love deeply, pondered, in his turn, the best means of bringing his uncle over to the length of helping him, by any means or in any way, to escape from Marchmain. The most palpable mode of entering on the subject--that of lamenting his father's want of hospitality--had been made impracticable by Colonel Sutherland, who laid all the weight of the arrangement upon his own convenience; and his simplicity and straightforwardness made a sidelong approach to it equally out of the question. Horace was compelled, accordingly, to bring in his subject all at once, and without introduction. Colonel Sutherland, without meaning it, said something half consciously about the dreary country, and his nephew seized upon the chance. "Dreary, indeed!--and nothing else do we see, uncle, from year's end to year's end!" cried Horace. "Is it not enough to kill a man?--without a human face to break it, either; and here am I, strong and young, condemned to this life, and kept from any information--any advice--which can direct me what to do. Uncle, you are the only friend I have been able to see with freedom and confidence, and I am almost glad you don't stay at Marchmain--for there is no freedom there. Tell me, I beg of you, what can I do?" "My dear boy!" cried the Colonel, grasping his nephew's hand in sudden sympathy, and with a little gasp of earnest attention--"you take away my breath. Solitude has not diminished your energy, at all events. Do? Why, to be sure, a boy like you can do anything. We must look for an opening, that is all--but you should have begun before now." "My father," said Horace, with unconscious bitterness, "has stopped that. I don't know anything about the world, except this paltry little world here, of gamekeepers and poachers, and sporting farmers' sons--for gentlemen, of course, don't associate with me. What are we, uncle?--nobodies? I can't tell--my father keeps up habits which look like the relics of a better time--and at the same time I know we're poor; but _he_ throws no light upon our unhappy circumstances. _He_ keeps me shut up in this horrible house, till I think all sorts of horrors: that he's a returned convict, or something like that--that our name's a disgrace. What is it?--of course there must be some cause for this seclusion--and you must know."