scheme for correspondence, he must have been in his dotage, and he had not hitherto evinced any signs of that.
Farewell, pretty Sophy! The evening star shines upon yon elm-tree that hides thee from view. Fading—fading grows the summer landscape; faded already from the landscape thy gentle image! So ends a holiday in life. Hallow it, Sophy; hallow it, Lionel. Life's holidays are not too many!
CHAPTER XVII.
Vance, returning late at night, found his friend still up in the little parlor, the windows open, pacing the floor with restless strides, stopping now and then to look at the moon upon the river.
"Such a day as I have had! and twelve shillings for the fly, 'pikes not included," said Vance, much out of humor.
"'I fly from plate, I fly from pomp,
I fly from falsehood's specious grin'—
I forget the third line; I know the last is,
'To find my welcome at an inn.'
You are silent: I annoyed you by going—could not help it—pity me, and lock up your pride."
"No, my dear Vance, I was hurt for a moment—but that's long since over!"
"Still you seem to have something on your mind," said Vance, who had now finished reading his letters, lighted his cigar, and was leaning against the window as the boy continued to walk to and fro,
"That is true—I have. I should like your advice. Read that letter. Ought I to go?—would it look mercenary—grasping? You know what I mean.
Vance approached the candles, and took the letter. He