“And she was good enough to write back that it was just what she wanted; for several of the children—­most of them, I should say—­couldn’t read, but they liked looking at pictures.  And then she was kind enough to add that if I went down next Sunday, she would take me to see how the things had been distributed—­the pictures hung up on walls, and so forth—­and—­and that’s why I think I may go down.”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” Lionel said, though he did not understand why any such excuse was necessary.

“Couldn’t you come down, too, Linn?” Mangan suggested.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t, I’m so busy,” was the immediate reply.  “I’m going to Scotland the first or second week in August.  The doctor advises me to give my voice a long rest; and the Cunynghams have asked me to their place in Ross-shire.  Besides, I don’t care about singing in London when there’s nobody but country cousins, and none too many of them.  Of course I’ll have to go down and bid the old folks good-bye before starting for Scotland, and Francie, too.  Mind you tell that wicked Francie that I am very angry with her for not having come up to see ’The Squire’s Daughter.’”

“Linn,” said his friend, after a second, “why don’t you take the old people over to Aix or some such place for a month?  They’re so awfully proud of you; and you might take Miss Frances as well; she seems to work so hard—­she deserves a rest.  Wouldn’t that be as sensible as going to Scotland?”

“My good chap, I would do that in a moment—­I should be delighted,” said he—­for he was really a most generously disposed young man, especially as regarded money; time was of greater consideration with him.  “But it’s no use thinking of such a thing.  The old folks are much too content with home; they won’t travel.  And Francie—­she wouldn’t come away from those precious babes.  Well, I’m off.  Mind you scold Francie for me!”

“Perhaps,” said Mangan, as he accompanied his friend to the door.

So it was that on a certain evening in August, Lionel Moore drove up to Euston Station and secured a sleeping-berth in the train going north; and no doubt the consciousness that after a long spell of hard work he was entering upon a well-earned holiday was a very welcome and comfortable thing.  If only he had been a little more reflective, he might have set to work (here in the railway-carriage, as he lit his cigar, and proceeded to fix up his reading-lamp) and gone on to consider how entirely satisfactory all his circumstances were at this moment.  Prince Fortunatus, indeed!  Was ever any one more happily situated?  Here he was, young, full of health and high spirits, excellent-tempered, and sufficiently good-looking; he had acquired a liberal measure of fame and popularity; he had many friends; he had ample means, for he did not know the difference between a backer and a layer, nor yet the difference between a broker and a jobber—­in fact, gambling, either in stocks or on the turf, had never even occurred