the soft heart of youth: at seventy, the gate is not so open; the soil
is more sterile. I shall never care for another Christopher; never see
another grow to man's estate."

"The mother, sir," sobbed Lady Cicely; "the poor mother?"

"Like them all--poor creature: in heaven, madam; in heaven. New life!
new existence! a new character. All the pride, glory, rapture, and
amazement of maternity--thanks to her ignorance, which we must prolong,
or I would not give one straw for her life, or her son's. I shall never
leave the house till she does know it, and come when it may, I dread the
hour. She is not framed by nature to bear so deadly a shock."

"Her father, sir. Would he not be the best person to break it to her? He
was out to-day."

"Her father, ma'am? I shall get no help from him. He is one of those
soft, gentle creatures, that come into the world with what your canting
fools call a mission; and his mission is to take care of number one.
Not dishonestly, mind you, nor violently, nor rudely, but doucely and
calmly. The care a brute like me takes of his vitals, that care Lusignan
takes of his outer cuticle. His number one is a sensitive plant. No
scenes, no noise; nothing painful--by-the-by, the little creature that
writes in the papers, and calls calamities PAINFUL, is of Lusignan's
breed. Out to-day! of course he was out, ma'am: he knew from me his
daughter would be in peril all day, so he visited a friend. He knew his
own tenderness, and evaded paternal sensibilities: a self-defender. I
count on no help from that charming man."

"A man! I call such creachaas weptiles!" said Lady Cicely, her ghastly