a young lady refused him, that would be unmanly. 'There isn't a bit of a man left about me,' said Larry, weeping. Morton, nevertheless, went on. Time would cure these wounds; but no time would give him back Chowton should he once part with it. If he must leave the place for a time let him put a care-taker on the farm, even though by doing so the loss might be great. He should do anything rather than surrender his house. As to buying the land himself Morton would not talk about it in the present circumstances. Then they parted at Chowton gate with many expressions of friendship on each side.
John Morton, as he returned home, could not help thinking that the young farmer's condition was after all better than his own. There was an honesty about both the persons concerned of which at any rate they might be proud. There was real love,--and though that love was not at present happy it was of a nature to inspire perfect respect. But in his own case he was sure of nothing.
WHEN Arabella Trefoil started from London for Mistletoe, with no companion but her own maid, she had given more serious consideration to her visit than she had probably ever paid to any matter up to that time. She had often been much in earnest, but never so much in earnest as now. Those other men had perhaps been worthy,--worthy as far as her ideas went of worth,--but none of them so worthy as this man. Everything was there, if she could only get it--money, rank, fashion, and an appetite for pleasure. And he was handsome, too, and good-humoured, though these qualities told less with her than the others. And now she was to meet him in the house of her great relations--in a position in which her rank and her fashion would seem to be equal to his own. And she would meet him with the remembrance fresh in his mind, as in her own, of those passages of love at Rufford. It would be impossible that he should even