should observe any little peculiarity of that kind in me, take no notice of it, let it pass. And now, if your boxes are all ready—as I suppose they are—let them be brought down and put on the chaise; we shall sleep in Poole to-night, and we can converse at the hotel, over a good dinner, as well as here.”

An hour later we were discussing that same good dinner, and maintaining a tolerably animated conversation over it, too. My father put a few adroit questions to me relative to my school experiences, which had the effect of “drawing me out,” and he listened to all I had to say with just that appearance of friendly interest which is so flattering and encouraging to a youthful talker. His treatment of me was everything that could be desired—except that he seemed to be rather taking the ground of an elder friend than of a parent. I should have preferred a shade less of the polite suavity of his manner and a more distinct manifestation of fatherly affection. He seemed anxious to efface the memory of the singularity which marked our first meeting; and yet I thought that, later on in the evening, when our conversation assumed a more general character, I could detect a disposition on his part to again approach the subject, these approaches being accompanied by a very perceptible nervousness and constraint of manner. But, though my father certainly led the conversation once or twice in that direction, he as often changed the subject again, and nothing more was said about it until our bed-room candles were brought to us and we were about to retire for the night. Then, as we vacated the chairs we had been occupying during the evening, and rose to our feet, he grasped me by the arm and planted me square in front of the chimney-piece, which was surmounted by a pier-glass, and, placing himself beside me, remarked, looking at our reflected images:

“You have grown tremendously, Leo, during the seven years you have been at school. I really believe you will develop into as tall a man as I am. But,” (taking a candlestick in his hand and holding it so as to throw the light full upon our faces) “you are so like your mother, so painfully like your mother;” and again the frown darkened his face and for a moment he seemed almost to shrink from me.

“Well, sir,” said I, “it seems to me that I have your forehead, your mouth, and your chin; we both possess considerable width between the eyes; and my hair, though dark, is curly, like your own.”

“Ah, yes!” he answered, somewhat impatiently; “the latter, however, is a mere accident; and, as to the other points you have mentioned, I really cannot see any positive resemblance; I wish I could—I earnestly wish that my son resembled me rather than—Ah! there I go again, saying words which positively have no meaning. I really must take rest and medical advice; I have executed several very important commissions during the past year, and the strain upon my imagination and upon my nerves has been almost too much for me. Now, I’ll be bound, Leo, that you have noticed more than once this evening that there are moments when I am not—well, not exactly my natural self.”

“Well, sir,” I hesitatingly replied, “I must confess that—that—”

“That you have,” my father interrupted. “Very well; take no notice of it; forget it; it means nothing. Good night, boy; good night.”

“Good night, sir,” I replied. “I hope you will sleep soundly, and rise in the morning refreshed. And, oh father! I wish I could do anything to help you—”

“So you can, my son; so you can. Thank you, Leo, for your kind wish. You can help me very greatly, by taking no notice whatever of any little eccentricities you may observe in my behaviour, and by remembering that they are entirely due to overwork. Now, good night, once more; and remember that we must be stirring early in the morning, as we have a long journey before us.”

And, with this very peculiar mode of dismissal, my father gently forced me out of the room, and closed the door upon me.