"Well, he lives, as I may say, a little promiscuous. If he ain't _here_.

it's because he's _there!_ You understand?"

"I cannot say very confidently that I do understand," said Ogden, slowly.

"It was well as you was n't a practisin' lawyer, Britisher, for you ain't smart! that's a fact No, sir; you ain't smart!"

"Your countrymen's estimate of that quality has a high standard, sir,"

said Ogden, haughtily.

"What do you mean by my countrymen?" asked the other, quickly.

"I ventured to presume that you were an American," said Ogden, with a supercilious smile.

"Well, stranger, you were main right; though darn me con-siderable if I know how you discovered it. Don't you be a-goin', now that we 're gettin' friendly together. Set down a bit. Maybe you 'd taste a morsel of something."

"Excuse me, I have just dined."

"Well, mix a summut in your glass. It's a rare pleasure to me, stranger, to have a chat with a man as talks like a Christian. I'm tired of 'Come si fa,'--that's a fact, sir."

"I regret that I cannot profit by your polite invitation," said Ogden, bowing stiffly. "I had been directed to this house as the residence of Lord Agincourt and his tutor; and as neither of them live here--"

"Who told you that? There's one of them a-bed in that room there; he's caught swamp-fever, and it's gone up to the head. He's the tutor,--poor fellow."

"And the Marquis?"

"The Marquis! he's a small parcel to have such a big direction on him, ain't he? He's at a villa, a few miles off; but he 'll be over here to-morrow morning."

"You are quite sure of that?" asked Ogden.

"Yes, sir," said Quackinboss, drinking off his glass, and nodding, in token of salutation.

"I must beg you to accept my excuses for this intrusion on my part,"

began Ogden.

"Jest set you down there again; there's a point I 'd like to be cleared up about I 'm sure you 'll not refuse me. Jest set down."

Ogden resumed his seat, although with an air and manner of no small disinclination.

"No wine, thank you. Excuse me," said he, stiffly, as Quackinboss tried to fill his glass.

"You remarked awhile ago," said Quackinboss, slowly, and like a man weighing all his words, "that I was an American born. Now, sir, it ain't a very likely thing that any man who was ever raised in the States is goin' to deny it. It ain't, I say, very probable as he 'd say I'm a Chinese, or a Mexican, or a Spaniard; no, nor a Britisher. Whatever we do in this life, stranger, one thing, I suppose, is pretty certain,--we don't say the worst of ourselves. Ain't that your platform, sir?"

"I agree to the general principle."

"Agreein', then, to the gen'ral principle, here's where we go next, for I ain't a-goin' to let you off, Britisher; I 've got a harpoon in you now, and I 'll tow you after me into shoal water; see if I don't.

Agreein', as we say, to the gen'ral principle, that no man likes to make his face blacker than it need be, what good could it do me to say that I wasn't born a free citizen of the freest country of the universe?"

"I am really at a loss to see how I am interested in this matter. I have not, besides, that perfect leisure abstract discussion requires. You will forgive me if I take my leave." He moved hastily towards the door as he spoke, followed by Quackinboss, whose voice had now assumed the full tones and the swelling modulations of public oratory.

"That great land, sanctified by the blood of the pilgrim fathers, and whose proudest boast it is that from the first day, when the star-spangled banner of Freedom dallied with the wind and scorned the sun, waving its barred folds over the heads of routed enemies,--to that glorious consummation, when, from the rugged plains of New England to the golden groves of Florida--"

"Good-bye, sir,--good-evening," said Ogden, passing out and gaining the landing-place.

"--One universal shout, floating over the Atlantic waters, proclaimed to the Old World that the 'Young' was alive and kickin'--"

"Good-night," cried Ogden, from the bottom of the stairs; and Quackinboss re-entered his chamber and banged the door after him, muttering something to himself about Lexington and Concord, Columbus and Quincy Adams.

CHAPTER XXIII. BROKEN TIES

It was a sorrowful morning at the Villa Caprini on the 22d of November.

Agincourt had come to take his last farewell of his kind friends, half heart-broken that he was not permitted even to see poor Layton before he went Quackin-bose, however, was obdurate on the point, and would suffer no one to pass the sick man's door. Mr. Ogden sat in the carriage as the boy dashed hurriedly into the house to say "Good-bye." Room after room he searched in vain. No one to be met with. What could it mean?--the drawing-room, the library, all empty!

"Are they all out, Fenton?" cried he, at last.

"No, my Lord, Sir William was here a moment since, Miss Leslie is in her room, and Mrs. Morris, I think, is in the garden."

To the garden he hurried off at once, and just caught sight of Mrs.

Morris and Clara, as, side by side, they turned the angle of an alley.

"At last!" cried he, as he came up with them. "At last I have found some one. Here have I been this half-hour in search of you all, over house and grounds. Why, what's the matter?--what makes you look so grave?"

"Don't you know?--haven't you heard?" cried Mrs. Morris, with a sigh.

"Heard what?"

"Heard that Charles has gone off,--started for England last night, with the intention of joining the first regiment ordered for India."

"I wish to Heaven he 'd have taken me with him!" cried the boy, eagerly.

"Very possibly," said she, dryly; "but Charles was certainly to blame for leaving a home of happiness and affection in this abrupt way. I don't see how poor Sir William is ever to get over it, not to speak of leaving May Leslie. I hope, Agincourt, this is not the way you 'll treat the young lady you 're betrothed to."

"I 'll never get myself into any such scrape, depend on't. Poor Charley!"

"Why not poor May?" whispered Mrs. Morris.

"Well, poor May, too, if she cared for him; but I don't think she did."

"Oh, what a shame to say so! I 'm afraid you young gentlemen are brought up in great heresies nowadays, and don't put any faith in love."

Had the boy been an acute observer, he would have marked how little the careless levity of the remark coincided with the assumed sadness of her former manner; but he never noticed this.

"Well," broke in the boy, bluntly, "why not marry him, if she cared for him? I don't suppose you 'll ask me to believe that Charley would have gone away if she had n't refused him?"

"What a wily serpent it is!" said Mrs. Morris, smiling; "wanting to wring confidences from me whether I will or no."

"No. I 'll be hanged if I _am_ wily,--am I, Clara?"