old idea though it be. I see a man who, with
very commonplace materials for interest or amusement
at his command, continues to be always interested or
generally amused; I ask myself why and how? And
it seems to me as if the cause started from fixed
beliefs which settle his relations with God and man,
and that settlement he will not allow any speculations
to disturb. Be those beliefs questionable or
not by others, at least they are such as cannot displease
a Deity, and cannot fail to be kindly and useful to
fellow-mortals. Then he plants these beliefs
on the soil of a happy and genial home, which tends
to confirm and strengthen and call them into daily
practice; and when he goes forth from home, even to
the farthest verge of the circle that surrounds it,
he carries with him the home influences of kindliness
and use. Possibly my line of life may be drawn
to the verge of a wider circle than his; but so much
the better for interest and amusement, if it can be
drawn from the same centre; namely, fixed beliefs daily
warmed into vital action in the sunshine of a congenial
home.”
Mrs. Braefield listened to this speech with pleased
attention, and as it came to its close, the name of
Lily trembled on her tongue, for she divined that
when he spoke of home Lily was in his thoughts; but
she checked the impulse, and replied by a generalized
platitude.
“Certainly the first thing in life is to secure
a happy and congenial home. It must be a terrible
trial for the best of us if we marry without love.”
“Terrible, indeed, if the one loves and the
other does not.”
“That can scarcely be your case, Mr. Chillingly,
for I am sure you could not marry where you did not
love; and do not think I flatter you when I say that
a man far less gifted than you can scarcely fail to
be loved by the woman he wooes and wins.”
Kenelm, in this respect one of the modestest of human
beings, shook his head doubtingly, and was about to
reply in self-disparagement, when, lifting his eyes
and looking round, he halted mute and still as if
rooted to the spot. They had entered the trellised
circle through the roses of which he had first caught
sight of the young face that had haunted him ever
since.
“Ah!” he said abruptly; “I cannot
stay longer here, dreaming away the work-day hours
in a fairy ring. I am going to town to-day by
the next train.”
“Yoa are coming back?”
“Of course,—this evening. I
left no address at my lodgings in London. There
must be a large accumulation of letters; some, no
doubt, from my father and mother. I am only going
for them. Good-by. How kindly you have
listened to me!”
“Shall we fix a day next week for seeing the
remains of the old Roman villa? I will ask Mrs.
Cameron and her niece to be of the party.”
“Any day you please,” said Kenelm joyfully.
KENELM did indeed find a huge pile of letters and
notes on reaching his forsaken apartment in Mayfair;
many of them merely invitations for days long past,
none of them of interest except two from Sir Peter,
three from his mother, and one from Tom Bowles.
