Yes, the Rector was considerably puzzled to account for this change, and resolved to find out what ailed the lad, but he hardly knew how to set about this delicate task, the more so, as he feared the consolations of religion would do but little good in this case; for Maurice, without being absolutely a sceptic, yet held opinions of a heterodox type, quite at variance with the declarations of the Thirty-Nine Articles in which the good Rector so firmly believed. At length Mr. Carriston grew weary of cracking nuts and sipping port wine without the digestive aid of pleasant conversation, and therefore began to talk to his quondam pupil, with the firm determination to keep on talking until he discovered the secret of the young man’s melancholy. “Are you not going to fill your glass, Maurice?” “No, thank you, sir. I am rather tired of port.” “Inexplicable creature!” said the Rector, holding up his glass to the light. “Ah, well, ‘_De gustibus_,’ my dear lad. I have no doubt you can finish the quotation. Why not try claret?” “I’m tired of claret.” “It seems to me, sir,” observed Mr. Carriston leisurely, “that you are tired of all things.” “I am—including myself.” “Strange! A young man of thirty years of age, sound of mind and body, who is fortunate enough to inherit six thousand a year, ought to be happy.” “Money does not bring happiness.” “Ah, that proverb is quite worn out,” replied the Rector cheerily; “try another, my boy, try another.” Maurice, leaning forward with a sigh, took a handful of nuts, which he proceeded to crack in a listless fashion. The Rector said nothing, but waited for Maurice to speak, which he was obliged to do out of courtesy, although much disinclined to resume the argument. “I’ve tried everything, and I’m tired of everything.” “Even of that marble-chipping you call art?” “I am more tired of that than of anything else,” said Maurice emphatically. “A bad case,” murmured the Rector, shaking his gray head; “a very bad case, which needs curing. ‘Nothing’s new! nothing’s true! and no matter,’ says my Oxford fine gentleman. Maurice, I must assert my privilege as an old friend, and reason with you in this matter. I am sadly afraid, my dear lad, that you need whipping.” The ghost of a smile played over the tired face of the young man, and he assented heartily to the observation of his old tutor—nay, even added an amendment thereto. “I do, sir, I do!” he said sombrely; “we all need whipping more or less—men, women, and children.” “I am afraid the last-named get the most of it,” replied Carriston, with dry humor. “With the birch, yes. But ’tis not so pleasant to be whipped by Fate.” “My dear lad, you cannot say she has whipped you.” “To continue your illustration, Rector, there are several modes of whipping,—the birch which pains the skin, poverty which pains the body, and despair which pains the soul. The latter is my case. I have health, wealth, and youth; but I feel the stings of the rod all the same.”