“I see you wish to have your grandchild to yourself now. May I call early to-morrow? Sophy will tell you that I hope we may not altogether lose sight of each other. I will give you my address when I call.” “What time to-morrow, sir?” “About nine.” Waife bowed his head and walked on, but Sophy looked back towards her boy friend, sorrowfully, gratefully; twilight in the skies that had been so sunny,--twilight in her face that had been so glad! She looked back once, twice, thrice, as Lionel halted on the road and kissed his hand. The third time Waife said with unwonted crossness,-- “Enough of that, Sophy; looking after young men is not proper! What does he mean about ‘seeing each other, and giving me his address’?” “He wished me to write to him sometimes and he would write to me.” Waife’s brow contracted; but if, in the excess of grandfatherly caution, he could have supposed that the bright-hearted boy of seventeen meditated ulterior ill to that fairy child in such a scheme for correspondence, he must have been in his dotage, and he had not hitherto evinced any signs of that. Farewell, pretty Sophy! the evening star shines upon yon elm-tree that hides thee from view. Fading-fading grows the summer landscape; faded already from the landscape thy gentle image! So ends a holiday in life. Hallow it, Sophy; hallow it, Lionel! Life’s holidays are not too many! CHAPTER XVII. By this chapter it appeareth that he who sets out on a career can scarcely expect to walk in perfect comfort, if he exchanges his own thick-soled shoes for dress-boots which were made for another man’s measure, and that the said boots may not the less pinch for being brilliantly varnished.--It also showeth, for the instruction of Men and States, the connection between democratic opinion and wounded self-love; so that, if some Liberal statesman desire to rouse against an aristocracy the class just below it, he has only to persuade a fine lady to be exceedingly civil “to that sort of people.” Vance, returning late at night, found his friend still up in the little parlour, the windows open, pacing the floor with restless strides, stopping now and then to look at the moon upon the river. “Such a day as I have had! and twelve shillings for the fly, ‘pikes not included,” said Vance, much out of humour-- “‘I fly from plate, I fly from pomp, I fly from falsehood’s specious grin;’ I forget the third line. I know the last is--” ‘To find my welcome at an inn.’ You are silent: I annoyed you by going--could not help it--pity me, and lock up your pride.” “No, my dear Vance, I was hurt for a moment, but that’s long since over!” “Still you seem to have something on your mind,” said Vance, who had now finished reading his letters, lighted his cigar, and was leaning against the window as the boy continued to walk to and fro.