aloud, "Then I aspired to be renowned and great; now, how is it that, so
advanced in my career, all that seemed lofty in the end has vanished from
me, and the only means that I contemplate are those which my childhood
would have called poor and vile? Ah, is it that I then read but books,
and now my knowledge has passed onward, and men contaminate more than
books? But," he continued, in a lower voice, as if arguing with himself,
"if power is only so to be won,--and of what use is knowledge if it be
not power--does not success in life justify all things? And who prizes
the wise man if he fails?" He continued his way, but still the soft
tranquillity around rebuked him, and still his reason was dissatisfied,
as well as his conscience. There are times when Nature, like a bath of
youth, seems to restore to the jaded soul its freshness,--times from
which some men have emerged, as if reborn. The crises of life are very
silent. Suddenly the scene opened on Randal Leslie's eyes,--the bare
desert common, the dilapidated church, the old house, partially seen in
the dank dreary hollow, into which it seemed to Randal to have sunken
deeper and lowlier than when he saw it last. And on the common were some
young men playing at hockey. That old-fashioned game, now very uncommon
in England, except at schools, was still preserved in the primitive
vicinity of Rood by the young yeomen and farmers. Randal stood by the
stile and looked on, for among the players he recognized his brother
Oliver. Presently the ball was struck towards Oliver, and the group
instantly gathered round that young gentleman, and snatched him from
Randal's eye; but the elder brother heard a displeasing din, a derisive
laughter. Oliver had shrunk from the danger of the thick clubbed sticks
that plied around him, and received some stroke across the legs, for his
voice rose whining, and was drowned by shouts of, "Go to your mammy.
That's Noll Leslie all over. Butter shins!"

Randal's sallow face became scarlet. "The jest of boors--a Leslie!" he