"I daresay it is very probable that I know life better than you do," he said; "but, my boy, I don't know your inclinations, nor your tastes, nor your particular abilities, half, or a hundred part, so well. I'll consider the matter as long as you like, but how shall I be able to determine what you will like best?" "Uncle, don't be annoyed," cried Horace, starting up--"can _I_ have inclinations?--do you think it is possible? Do you suppose I don't understand what it means, all that you have said, and all that you have not said, about my mother? I would not grieve Susan with such words, but _I_ know, as well as if you had spoken it, that it was my father who broke her heart." "No, no, no!" cried the Colonel, rising likewise, and lifting his hand in earnest deprecation. "No, it is a mistake--no, you are unjust to him, Horace! I cannot excuse him to you as I might, but beware how you think ill of him. There _are_ excuses--there _are_ reasons. Listen to me, Horace Scarsdale: your father is a man as much to be pitied as blamed." "And why?" said Horace, with a sceptical smile. "My dear boy, sometime you will see all these circumstances more clearly," said the Colonel, a little agitated; "take it for granted in the meantime, and remember that he is your father--and really this has little to do with the question after all. You must _like_ something: _he_ has not been kind, I grant; but even where the most perfect love exists between parents and children, a father is never all in all, either for good or evil, to his son." "No, uncle, but constant hate and enmity may kill the heart out of a man," said Horace. "I am not a fool; I could learn anything if I set myself to it: do you decide for me." "I _will_ then, my dear boy; and you will come to me to-morrow?" said the Colonel, faltering a little. "Come early, and I will walk back to Marchmain with you. Here is Susan ready. Are all the parcels safe? And you have spent a pleasant day, you fairy? Take care, Horace, that she does not catch cold." "_Pleasant_ day? Oh, uncle, the very happiest day of all my life!" said Susan. The old man led her out well pleased, involuntarily solacing himself, after her troublesome brother, with the sight of her fresh face. And Susan's happiest day was quite over when she caught the last glimpse of his gray, uncovered head bowing to her from the inn-door. Horace had no kind talk or affectionate cares for his sister. The wind blew cold, and the evening began to gather damp over the fells. The two young people fell into perfect silence as they pursued the monotonous road, and there was no great comfort to be had in the idea of the welcome which waited them at home. CHAPTER XVI.