shaking his head sagaciously, "that no one of strictly upright principles can be an intimate friend of Basil Beaumont's."

"I don't think they are very intimate friends," said Reggy thoughtfully, "rather the opposite."

"Ah, indeed," replied Dr. Larcher, "well, well, we shall see; however--_non hæc jocosæ conveniunt lyræ_--you can go over to the Grange, Blake, and inquire after the Squire's health."

At this moment a tapping was heard on the floor above which signified that Mrs. Larcher required some little attention, whereupon Pumpkin left the room with alacrity in order to see what "The Affliction" wanted. Left alone with the vicar Reggy was about to retire, when Dr. Larcher stopped him.

"By the way, Blake," he said gravely, "I wish to speak to you on a serious subject."

Reggy flushed red and bowed without saying a word, as he intuitively guessed what was coming.

"I am aware," observed the vicar in his ponderous manner, "that I may be about to interfere in your affairs in what you may consider a most unjustifiable manner."

"Not at all, sir," answered Reginald warmly, "no one has such a right to speak to me as you have--my second father--I may say my only father."

Dr. Larcher smiled in a gratified manner and looked at the tall young man standing near him with approval.

"I am glad to have your good opinion," he said, politely bending his head, "but in order that you may understand me clearly you must permit me to recapitulate as shortly as possible the story of your life--this is a very critical period of your career--remember Horace, _Tu nisi ventis debis ludibrium cave_."

Blake turned pale, then, with a forced smile resumed his seat and waited for the vicar to proceed, which that worthy gentleman did, not without some embarrassment.

"Of course you understand," he said clearing his throat, "that I am quite unaware of your parentage--whether your father and mother are alive I do not know--about two-and-twenty years ago you were brought to me by Patience Allerby, your nurse, who had just then returned from London, where she had been in service. She told me that you were the son of a poor literary man and his wife, whose servant she had been, they went away to France and--I understand--died there. She was left with you on her hands so 

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