glory and a light invisible to other eyes.  Roger had spent many happy hours with his cousin; she had grown in those few years from a girl almost into a woman, and he had come to love her deeply.  To her he said not a word, to Sir Edward he dared not speak, but one day Roger took an opportunity of confiding to Lady Doughty the new secret of his life.  His aunt did not discourage the idea; but Miss Doughty was still but a girl of fifteen; and there was the grave objection that the twain were first cousins.  And besides, though Roger was of a kind and considerate disposition, truthful, honourable, and scrupulous in points of duty, he had certain habits which assumed serious proportions in the mind of a lady so strict in notions of propriety.  He had in Paris acquired a habit of smoking immoderately.  In the regiment he had been compelled, by evil customs then prevailing, to go through a noviciate in the matter of imbibing “military port;” and his habits had followed him to Tichborne, and the young officer had been seen at least on one occasion in a state of semi-intoxication—­no less a word will describe his condition.  He was also accustomed to bring in his portmanteau French novels, which were decidedly objectionable, though few young men would probably regard it as much sin to read them.  So little did the young man appreciate her objections to this exciting kind of literature that he had actually recommended to his aunt some stories which no amount of humour and cleverness could prevent that pious lady regarding as debasing and absolutely immoral.  How Lady Doughty felt under all the circumstances of Roger’s love, as compared with his general conduct, will be best shown by the following letter:—­

         “1850.  Tichborne Park, begun 29 Jan., finished 31st.

“MY DEAREST ROGER,—­After three weeks being between life and death it has pleased God to restore me so far that I have this day for the first time been in the wheel chair to the drawing-room, and I hasten to begin my thanks to you for your letters, especially that private one, though it may yet be some days before I finish all I wish to say to you, for I am yet very weak, and my eyes scarcely allow of reading or writing....  Remember, dear Roger, that by that conversation in town you gave me every right to be deeply interested in your fate, and therefore doubly do I feel grieved when I see you abusing that noblest of God’s gifts to man, reason, by diminishing its power....  I cannot recall to my mind the subject you say I was beginning in the drawing-room when interrupted; probably it might have had reference to the confidence which you say you do not repent having placed in me.  No, dear Roger, never repent it; be fully assured that I never shall betray that confidence.  You are young, and intercourse with life and the society you must mix with might very possibly change your feelings towards one now dear to you, or rather settle them into the affection of a