one way or the other can't possibly matter, and Fanny and I would be mortally hurt if you start off without paying us a visit. We want to get to know you—and you want to get to know something of this blessed old country."
As the young man looked half persuaded he continued:
"Anyway, my dear fellow, you will never find your Uncle, and you may take my word for it. I've not lived out here for twenty-nine years without knowing what I am talking about. Now tell me something about yourself, and Mallender, and your poor father."
"Oh, yes! Well, you see, he had been ailing the last five years—the result of a bad fall from his horse—and he was greatly changed latterly. He could not bear to see anyone, would lie all day staring before him, and took no interest in any mortal thing!"
"No, not since your mother died, that I can well understand. You remember her, of course?"
The next moment Colonel Tallboys, who was proud of his tact, could have kicked himself. Why, the boy was fifteen when she died! Geoffrey made no reply, but he suddenly looked down, and his face seemed to quiver, and go white.
"What a lovely face! yes, and a lovely soul! There never was anyone like her." The speaker's voice sounded a little husky.
From the moment this sentence fell from his lips, Geoffrey entertained another feeling—a sudden warm glow of personal affection,—for his dapper little kinsman, and instantly made up his mind to accept the invitation to spend some weeks in his company.
"And what does the old place look like now?" resumed Colonel Tallboys in a livelier key.
"It looks frightfully dilapidated. You see, the pater let things slide—the grounds, and the gardens, and the shooting. He only occupied a few rooms, and the rest of the house was given up to rats and damp; the paper was peel-
