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the SOU L of a BUT T E R FLY
Refleaions 011 LijeJsJourney

Muhammad Ali
with Hana Yasmeen Ali

Photographs by
Howard Bingham

Simon & Schuster

New York London Toronto Sydney
To my parents Odessa and Cassius Clay, with love
-Muhammad Ali

To my Guardian Angels. They know who they are.

-Hana Yasmeen Ali
With my third wife, Veronica, and our daughters, Hana and Laila.
 contents

A Letter to the World x

Introduction xv

The Early Years 1

The Middle Years 43
The Current Years 143
In Troubled Times 185

Postscript 211
Acknowledgments 220
coauthor's note

a THE
LETTER
to
WORLD
Myths are about gods, legends are about heroes, and fairy tales describe the
endless worlds of magic and dreams. This book is neither myth nor fairy
tale, but the story of a legend with unwavering conviction. In the following
pages you will read about a man who asked his heart what actions to take,
and his heart replied like the beat of a drum that has yet to fade. You will
read about a man who stood up for those who could not stand up for them-
selves. About a man who stared adversity in the face. A man who shared
himself with the world and all who came his way.
You will read about a man who embodies the conflicts, struggles, and
hopes of hundreds of years, a man who mesmerized the world with his
artistry in the boxing ring, and won its respect with his courage outside it.
Yet, his greatest accomplishments-love, kindness, and generosity-all oc-
curred outside the spotlight. Throughout his life, he has moved us to tears,
of both joy and sorrow. He has found a home in the heart of the people of all
nations, and become the epitome of a champion and a hero.
It is said that more has been written about Muhammad Ali than any other
living person. When you have a heart as big as the world, the world wants to
write about it. The difference between this book and all the others about him
is that this book is from his heart.
In the following pages, you will see the world through my father's eyes.
You will learn about his dreams, his obstacles, his heartbreaks, and his vic-
tories from his youth to the present moment. This book is a journey through
the defining moments in my father's life. It is filled with his personal recol-
lections, occasionally sprinkled with my own memories, and laced with the
stories and poems that touched his heart.
I have witnessed the humanity and compassion of this man whose inno-

xi
cence of heart has gone untouched by time, a man with the soul of a butter-
fly. It has been a gift and an honor working with my father to help share his
thoughts, beliefs, and motivations with the world. If we all have parts to play
in life, this is the story of the man who played the part of love.

Daddy, you are my constant truth, my strength,

my heaven on earth. Thank you for being there
for me, thank you for believing in me, thank
you for holding my hand in the dark and al-
ways standing by me. You have been more
than just my father; you have been my teacher
of love, my friend, and my guardian angel. I
cherish you and adore you more than you
could ever know God bless you, Daddy. You
are my inspiration.

with love,
hana yasmeen ali

xii
You will never truly know
the depth of my father's soul,
how deep his dignity flows.
To love and give is all he's known, Ali
And his honor is a virtue of its own.
Words are not enough to tell his story.
Colors aren't lovely enough to depict his face.
Legend is not sturdy enough to uphold his name.
His spirit has surpassed our descriptive plane.
A billion stars could never replace,
The space his heart has filled.
A universe of doubt could never erase,
The faith his heart has embraced.
No picture has ever sufficiently captured
The smile in his angelic eyes,
And no book will ever fully explain
the beauty that Ali has defined.

-HANA YASMEEN ALI

xiii
 INTRODUCTION

People were always asking me what! was going to do after I retired from
boxing. My response then was as it is now: During my boxing career, you did

not see the rea! Muhammad Ali. You just saw a little boxing and a little show-
manship. It was after I retired from boxing that my true work began. i had
more time then to develop my spiritual being the way that i once developed
my muscles and agility.

When I look at the world, I see that many people build big beautiful
houses but live in broken homes. We spend more time learning how to make
a living than we do learning to make a life. What I hope to share with you are
the beliefs that I have come to live by: Many of the philosophies, stories, and
ideals that have touched my soul and inspired my heart I learned from my
study of Islam. I have shared this knowledge with my family and friends; now
I offer it to the world.

xv
 Over the years my religion has changed and my spirituality has evolved.
Religion and spirituality are very different, but people often confuse the two.
Some things cannot be taught, but they can be awakened in the heart. Spir-
ituality is recognizing the divine light that is within us all. It doesn't belong to
any particular religion; it belongs to everyone.
People have asked me if I still work on my faith. The truth is, I can talk
all day about my faith because more than anything else in my life, I believe
in God. If all of the oceans on Earth were ink, and all of the trees were pens,
they still would not be sufficient to write down the knowledge God has.
Knowing that God has power like that keeps me humble. The more I study
about God and Islam, the more I realize how little I know. So, I am still study-
ing, and I'm still learning because there's nothing as great as working
for God.
Truly great people in history never wanted to be great for themselves. All
they wanted was the chance to do good for others and be close to God. I'm
not perfect. I know that I still have things to work out, and I'm working on
them. There are certain things I have done that I am not proud of, especially
when they caused pain to others. I ask God for forgiveness.
No matter where I go, everybody recognizes my face and knows my
name. People love and admire me; they look up to me. That's a lot of power
and influence for one man to have, so I know I have a responsibility to use
my fame the right way. That's one of the reasons I've always tried to be good
to everyone no matter their color, religion, or position in life. Though some
people may see themselves as better or more important than others, in
God's eyes we are all equal, and it's what is in our hearts that matters.
People say that I gave away too much money during my boxing career.

xvi
They write about how some people took advantage of me, stole from me,
and how I let them get away with it. Even when I knew people were cheating
me, what was important was how I behaved, because I have to answer to
God. I can't be responsible for other people's actions: They will have to
answer to God themselves. Throughout my life, I never sought retribution
against those who hurt me because I believe in forgiveness. I have practiced
forgiving, just as I want to be forgiven. Only God knows what's in a person's
heart, his true intentions. He sees and hears all things.
Many people around me had their hands out, and I tried to help as many
of them as I could. There's nothing wrong with that. I gave to people in need,
even when I could have used the money myself, because God had made me
rich enough. Now, as I look back, it seems that the more I gave in the name
of God, the more he has given back to me. I try not to speak about the char-
ities and people I help, because I believe we can only be truly generous
when we expect nothing in return.
At night when I go to bed, I ask myself, "If I don't wake up tomorrow,
would I be proud of how I lived today." With that question in mind, I have
tried to do as many good deeds as I can, whether it is standing up for my
faith, signing an autograph, or simply shaking a person's hand. I'm just try-
ing to make people happy and get into heaven.

My concept of religion has broadened over the years. My mother was a Bap-
tist, and my father was a Methodist. They both believed that Jesus was the
son of God. I don't believe that, but I believe he was an important ncn,nh,:c:

xvii
like Moses. I believe that on judgment day, my parents will be in heaven, not
because they were without fault, but because they were decent, loving
human beings, and they believed in God. We all have the same God, we just
serve him differently. Rivers, lakes, ponds, streams, oceans, all have differ-
ent names, but they ali contain water. So do religions have different names,
and they ali contain truth, expressed in different ways, forms, and times. It
doesn't matter whether you're a Muslim, a Christian, or a Jew. When you be-
lieve in God, you should believe that ali people are part of one family. If you
love God, you can't love only some of his children.

This book is a reflection of my life, it describes some of my most memo-

rable experiences, and tells the story of how I came to be the man I am
today. I have come a long way since I started boxing. I've traveled all around
the world and met all types of people. I believe that God beautified the
planet by spreading everyone out and making us different. The goal of our
nations should be to work on understanding, respecting our differences,
and celebrating our similarities. We should appreciate the beauty in the di-
versity. It would be a boring world, if every flower were the same shape,
color, and size.
One of the most important aspects of my spirituality has been gradually
recognizing all of the moments in my life when God was working through
me, inside and outside the ring. Growing up, I had trouble reading and
spelling. I barely graduated from high school. They have a name for what I
have, dyslexia. But back when I was in school, teachers figured that kids
with learning difficulties were stupid. School was challenging for me, but I
found a way to work it out. When I came to a brick wall, I didn't give up and

xviii
quit; I found my way around, under, or over it. I found a way to work with
what God gave me. When I read or hear something that I think is valuable,
something that speaks to me of the world as I feel it, I focus on those parts.
I memorize them. When something seems true to me, it becomes part of
me. That is how I learn.
I felt God was always working through me. He filled me with wisdom,
confidence, self-assurance, and awareness. I studied life and I studied peo-
ple. I may be poor at reading and writing, but when it comes to love, com-
passion, and other feelings of the heart, I am rich. There is an old saying that
I've recited over the years. It goes like this: "Where is man's wealth? His
wealth is in his knowledge. If his wealth is in the bank, he doesn't possess
it." My wealth is in my knowledge of self, love, and spirituality. I've tried to
use my knowledge to be a good representative of my people. I can't be
blind, because if the blind lead the blind they all fall into a ditch.
My soul has grown over the years, and some of my views have changed.
As long as I'm alive, I will continue to try to understand more because the
work of the heart is never done. All through my life I have been tested. My
will has been tested, my courage has been tested, my strength has been
tested. Now my patience and endurance are being tested. Every step of the
way I believe that God has been with me. And, more than ever, I know that
he is with me now. I have learned to live my life one step, one breath, and
one moment at a time, but it was a long road. I set out on a journey of love,
seeking truth, peace, and understanding. I am still learning.

xix
GOD BLESS
the world

I hope that one day all

nations great and small
will be able to stand up and say
we lived in pursuit of peace for all.

Maybe then there will come a day

when instead of saying, "God bless America,"
or "God bless some other country,"
everyone everywhere will say,
"God bless the world."

xxi
 compet i t ion for L0 V E

Love is the only thing that every soul

brings to earth with it.

,f:." Hindu poet said: "The desire to love brought me to earth, and the same
desire to see the beloved I am taking with me to heaven,"
Wouldn't it be a beautiful world if just 10 percent of the people who be-
lieve in the power of love would compete with one another to see who could
do the most good for the most people? So many of us enjoy taking part in
competitions, why not hold a competition of love instead of one that leads to
jealousy and envy? If we continue to think and live as if we belong only to dif-
ferent cultures and different religions, with separate missions and goals, we
will always be in self-defeating competition with each other.

* * *

xxiii
Once we realize we are all members of humanity, we will want to compete in

the spirit of love.

In a competition of love we would not be running against one another, but

with one another. We would be trying to gain victory for all humanity. If I am

a faster runner than you, you may feel bad seeing me pass you in the race,

but if you know that we are both racing to make our world better, you will feei
good knowing that we are all racing toward a common goal, a mutua! re-

ward.
In a competition of love we'll all share in the victory, no matter who comes
in first.

A heart enlightened by love is more precious than all of the diamonds and
gold in the world.

inspired by a Jufi message

xxiv
The outer beauty ofa
penon must merge
with the inner beauty
and become one.
This is the source
of true beauty.

-Sufi Wisdom

xxv
 LOVE
THE IDEAL OF BEAUTY

True beauty is found in the heart ofthe beholder.

p·eS ! begin the story of my journey, I would like to share a short story that I
learned from the teachings of Sufism. There once was a king who enjoyed
spending his spare time in the company of philosophers and friends, debat-
ing various subjects. One afternoon, the debate concerned where beauty
lies. As they were talking together on the terrace of the palace, the king and
his friends could see their children playing in the courtyard. The king called
to one of his servants. He gave him a jeweled crown and asked him to place
it upon the head of the most beautiful child in the courtyard.
The servant took the crown and walked out to the middle of the court-
yard, where all the children were playing as their parents watched from the
terrace.
First the servant placed the crown on the head of the king's son. He saw
that it suited him well. The boy was a handsome lad but, somehow, the ser-
vant was not satisfied. He tried it on the head of another child, and another,

xxvi
until he came upon his own son, who was sitting in the corner. He placed
the jeweled crown on his son's head and found that it suited him wonder-
fully.
The servant then took his son by the hand and led him to the king. When
he reached the terrace, he bowed his head and spoke. "Sire, I have found
that of all the children, the crown suits this one best. Indeed, if I tell the truth
I must say this. I am ashamed to appear so bold, for the child is the son of
my humble self."
Then the king and those beside him laughed very heartily and thanked
the servant, for they all thought his son to be very ugly indeed. The king
walked over to the servant and said, "You have certainly told me what I wish
to know: It is the heart that perceives beauty."

xxvii
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
to meet it: and Lady Oswald gave a scream as Parkins had done,
and wanted to know how he had got there.

"I came down on my own account, Lady Oswald," he said, as he

gave her his arm to lead her in. "My visit is a purposed one to you."

"I'm sure you are very good, Oswald! It is not often that you
honour me with a visit. When you are staying in the neighbourhood
for days and days, a simple call of ceremony is about all I get."

His lips parted with that peculiar smile which made his face at
these moments so attractive. "When I am in the neighbourhood,
Lady Oswald, business nearly overwhelms me. I have not much time
to call my own."

Lady Oswald untied her bonnet, and threw herself into a chair:
only the drive to Dr. Davenal's and back had tired her. Parkins came
into the room to take her things, but she waved her hand sharply,
impatient at the interruption. "Presently, presently,"--and Parkins left
them alone again.

"Oswald, do you know what a cruel letter I have had this

morning? They want to bring that wretched railway through my
grounds."

"Not the railway," he said, correcting her. "They are proposing to

build some sheds upon the boundaries of them."

"You know about it, then?"

"Yes; I came down to acquaint you, and I am sorry you should

have heard of it from any one else first. I could have spared you
one-half the alarm and annoyance it seems to have caused. Look
here. This is the plan."

He spread the paper out before her. He pointed out the very small
portion of the grounds, and in the remotest part of them, not in
sight of the house or the parts ever walked in by herself, that was
proposed to be taken: he assured her that the projected sheds were
but small sheds, for barrows, trucks, and such things to stand under;
that they would, in point of fact, be no annoyance to her, that she
never need see or hear them. All in vain. Lady Oswald had set her
mind bitterly against the innovation; she could neither be persuaded
nor soothed, and she felt vexed with Mr. Oswald Cray that he should
attempt it.

"It is very well for you to praise it," she resentfully said. "Your
interest lies in the line, not in me. Perhaps they have bribed you to
say all this."

For a single moment his face grew dark, and its haughty pride
shone out quite repellently; the next he was smiling his sweet smile.
None knew better than Oswald Cray how rebelliously false the
tongue is apt to be in moments of irritation.

"Dear Lady Oswald, you know that it is foreign to my nature to

cause needless pain. When this news reached my ears a week ago,
for the plan did not originate with me, I bestirred myself to see
whether it might not be relinquished; whether, in short, the sheds
could not be erected on any other portion of the line. But I find that
there is no other portion available so close to the station."

"There's that piece of waste ground midway between this and the
station," she answered. "Why can they not take that?"

"Another station is to be made there. One for goods."

"Another station! Do they think to bring all the world to

Hallingham?"

"They are bringing a great many lines of rails to it."

"But they need not disturb my possessions to make room for

them!" she quickly retorted. "Surely your interest might get this
spared to me!"

In vain Mr. Oswald Cray strove to convince her that on this point
he had no influence whatever. Nay, he confessed to her, in his candid
truth, that as one of the engineers to the line, he could only
acquiesce in the expediency of that part being used for the sheds,
that there was no other spot so available.

"I drew this plan out myself," he said, "partly from our charts of
the line, partly from my personal recollection of your grounds. I
wished to demonstrate to you how very little a portion of them is, in
fact, required. Will you put on your bonnet again, Lady Oswald, and
walk with me to the spot? I will show you the exact measure they
intend to take."

"No, I won't," said Lady Oswald angrily. "And you ought not to
turn against me, Oswald. It is the principle of the thing I go upon;
the resistance that, in my opinion, should be universally made to
these intrusive railways, which are cutting up the country and
ruining it. If they wanted to take but one foot of my ground; if they
only wanted that dry ditch that skirts it, they should never have it by
my consent, and I will hold out against it to the last. Now you
know."

She sat nervously unpinning her cashmere scarf, her hands

trembling so that she could scarcely hold the gold pins as she took
them out. Oswald Cray slowly rolled up the parchment. He had come
down from town at a very busy moment, when he could ill spare the
time, with the sole hope of soothing the news to her, of putting her
in good humour with what must inevitably be. He had received many
little kindnesses from her in his life, especially in his boyhood; and
he was one to treasure up the remembrance of kindness shown, and
repay it if he could.

It may seem a very trifling thing, this project of erecting a few

low, trumpery sheds; as may Lady Oswald's inveterate objection to
it. But it is on trifles that the great events of life turn; and, but for
this project of the sheds, this not-to-be-conquered refusal, the
greater portion of this story need never have been written.

CHAPTER V.

RETROSPECT.

Of some note in the county, though poor for their rank, were the
Oswalds of Thorndyke. Thorndyke, their country seat, was situated
about five miles from Hallingham, and had been generally made the
constant residence of the reigning baronet. It was a fine old place;
the dyke surrounding it, or dike, as you may like to spell it--from
which the place no doubt had partially taken its name--was of
remarkable width. It was filled up in the time of Lady Oswald's
husband, the third baronet of his name; and fine pleasure-grounds
might be seen now where unwholesome water had once stagnated.
Possibly that water had been the remote and unsuspected cause of
the dying off of so many of the house's children--as they had died in
the old days.

The second baronet, Sir Oswald Oswald, lost five children in

succession. Two daughters and a son alone lived to grow up: and
perhaps it had been as well for the peace of Sir Oswald and his wife
had those three likewise died in infancy; for pain they all brought
home in one shape or other. They were self-willed and disobedient;
preferring their own ways. The son wished to go into the army: his
father had the greatest possible aversion to it; but he persisted, and
went, in spite of remonstrance. The younger daughter, Frances,
married an old man for his rank: Sir Oswald objected to it; the man's
character was of startling notoriety; but Frances took her own will
and married him. A few short months only, and she was back again
at Thorndyke, driven to take refuge from her husband in her father's
home. The elder daughter, Mary, married Mr. Cray, a gentleman of
no account in comparison with the Oswalds of Thorndyke. To this
the most strenuous objection of all was made by Sir Oswald and his
lady--in their haughty pride they looked down with utter contempt
upon Mr. Cray. Miss Oswald disputed the grounds of their objection,
urging that Mr. Cray, though of no particular note, was at least of
gentle blood and breeding, and though his means might be small,
she deemed them sufficient. It was of no use: she could make no
impression on her father and mother, she could not shake their
refusal of consent, and she married Mr. Cray without it. Public
opinion on the matter was divided. Some took Miss Oswald's part.
She was of an age to judge for herself, being, in fact, no longer very
young; and there appeared no good reason, save that he was not
wealthy, for objecting to Mr. Cray. But her family--father, mother,
brother, sister--bitterly resented it, and said she had disgraced them.

Mr. Cray had about eight hundred a-year, derivable from money in
the funds, and he lived in the Abbey at Hallingham. The Oswalds
enjoyed some three or four thousand a-year, landed property, and
they lived at Thorndyke, and were baronets, and very grand. Of
course there was a great difference; but some thought the
difference might have been got over by Sir Oswald. Some went so
far as to say that Mr. Cray, with his fine manly person and good
conduct, was a better man than that shrivelled old lord who was
breaking the heart of his poor wife, the younger daughter. Sir
Oswald and Lady Oswald could not be brought to see it; none of the
Oswalds could see it; and, take them altogether--brothers, cousins,
uncles and nephews--there was a large family of them.

Mary Oswald married Mr. Cray, and he brought her home to

Hallingham Abbey, and her friends never saw her after; that is, they
never would recognise her. Many a Tuesday, on which day the family
from Thorndyke would drive into Hallingham in their carriage and
four--as was the habit with some of the county people--did they pass
her without notice. They would be in the large close carriage, the old
baronet and my lady, and their daughter Frances--who had no home
now but theirs--opposite to them, and they would see Mrs. Cray at
the Abbey windows, alone or with her husband, as the case might
be, for their road took them past it, and all the greeting they gave
her was a stony stare. Time went on, and there appeared a baby at
her side, a pretty little fellow in long petticoats, held in his nurse's
arms. That baby was named Oswald Oswald, and was the Mr.
Oswald Cray whom you have seen: but the stare from the baronet's
carriage was not less stony than before.

A twelvemonth more, when Oswald could just begin to run about

in his pretty white frocks, and get his sturdy legs into grief, his hands
into mischief, another child was born, and died. Poor Mrs. Cray died
herself a few weeks afterwards. People said she had grown weak,
fretting after Thorndyke, after her father and mother, lamenting their
hardness, regretting her own disobedience; but people are prone to
talk, and often say things for which there's not a shadow of
foundation. She died without having seen her friends--unreconciled;
and when Mr. Cray wrote to Sir Oswald a very proper letter, not
familiar, but giving the details of her death, no answer was accorded
him. Mrs. Cray, as Mary Oswald, had possessed a small income
independent of her father, and this on her death passed to her little
son. It was just one hundred and six pounds per year, and she made
it her dying request that he should use the surname of Oswald in
addition to that of Cray--should be known henceforth as Master
Oswald Cray.

And it was so; and when the boy first entered a noted public
school for gentlemen's sons, far away from Hallingham, and the
boys saw him sign his exercises and copies "O. Oswald Cray," they
asked him what the "O" was for. For his Christian name, he
answered. Was not Oswald his Christian name? they wanted to
know. Yes, his Christian and his surname both, he said--Oswald
Oswald. It was his grandpapa's Christian and surname, Sir Oswald
Oswald. Oh! was he his grandfather asked the boys. Yes; but--
Oswald added in his innate love of truth--he had never been the
better for him, Sir Oswald had never spoken to him in his life; there
was something unpleasant between him and his papa, he did not
know what. No; at that stage of the boy's age he was unconscious
what the breach was, or that his dead mother had made it.

Poor Oswald Cray had not had a very happy childhood's life; he
scarcely knew what was meant by the words, home-ties, home-love.
He had never enjoyed them. There was a second Mrs. Cray, and a
second family, and she did not like the boy Oswald, or care that he
should be at home. He was but four years old when he was
despatched to a far-off preparatory school, where he was to stay the
holidays as well as the half-years. Now and then, about once in two
years or so, he would be had home for a fortnight at Christmas, and
Mr. Cray would make an occasional journey to see him.

It was at ten years old that he was removed to the public school,
where the boys asked him the meaning of the "O." Before that time
came, grief had penetrated to the family of Sir Oswald Oswald. His
only son and heir had died in battle in India; his daughter Frances,
who had never gone back to the old lord, had died at Thorndyke;
and Sir Oswald and his wife were childless. Neither survived the
year, and when Oswald was eleven years old, and getting to hold his
own in the school, the title had devolved on the next brother, Sir
John. Sir John was sixty when he came into it, and had no children.
He had offended the Oswald family in the same way that Mary
Oswald had offended them, by marrying a lady whose family was
not as good as his own.

That lady was the present widow, Lady Oswald, now lamenting
over the threatened innovation of the railway sheds. Sir John Oswald
enjoyed the title for four years only, and then it lapsed to a cousin,
for Sir John had no children. The cousin, Sir Philip, enjoyed it still,
and lived at Thorndyke, and his eldest son would succeed him. They
were proud also, those present Oswalds of Thorndyke, and never
had spoken to Oswald Cray in their lives. The prejudices of old Sir
Oswald had descended upon them, and Sir Philip and Lady Oswald
would pass Oswald Cray, if by chance they met him, with as stony a
stare as had ever greeted his poor mother.

Perhaps the only one of the whole Oswald family upon whom the
prejudices had not descended was the widow of Sir John. Upon the
death of her husband, when she had to leave Thorndyke, she took
on lease the house at Hallingham, and had never removed from it.
Her jointure was not a large one; but Sir John had bequeathed to
her certain moneys absolutely, and these were at her own disposal.
These moneys were also being added to yearly, for she did not
spend all her income; so that it was supposed Lady Oswald would
leave a pretty little sum behind her, by which somebody would
benefit. There was no lack of "somebodies" to look out for it, for
Lady Oswald had two nephews with large families, both of whom
wanted help badly. One of these nephews, the Reverend Mr.
Stephenson, was a poor curate, struggling to bring up his seven
children upon one hundred a year. Lady Oswald sent him a little help
now and then; but she was not fond of giving away her money.

The pride and prejudices of the family had not fallen upon her and
she noticed and welcomed Oswald Cray. He was fifteen when she
settled at Hallingham, and she had him to spend his first holidays
with her afterwards. She had continued to notice him ever since, to
invite him occasionally, and she was in her way fond of him; but it
was not in the nature of Lady Oswald to feel much fondness for any
one.

And yet, though not in her inmost heart cherishing the prejudices
of the Oswalds, she did in a degree adopt them. She could not be
independent and brave them off. Conscious that she was looked
down upon herself by the Oswalds, she could not feel sufficiently
free to take up her own standard of conduct, and fling those
prejudices utterly to the winds. Upon tolerably good terms with
Thorndyke, paying it occasional state visits, and receiving state visits
from it in return, she did not openly defy all Thorndyke's prejudices.
Though she acknowledged Oswald Cray as a relative, received him
as an equal, there it ended, and she never, by so much as a word or
a nod, recognised his father, Mr. Cray. She never had known him,
and she did not enter upon the acquaintance. But in this there was
nothing offensive, nothing that need have hurt the feelings of the
Crays; Lady Oswald and they were strangers, and she was not
bound to make their acquaintance, any more than she was that of
other gentlepeople about Hallingham, moving in a sphere somewhat
inferior to herself.

Mr. Cray had continued to reside at Hallingham Abbey, and to live

at it in a style that his income did not justify. However the Oswalds
may have despised him, he did not despise himself; neither did
Hallingham. Mr. Cray of the Abbey was of note in the town; Mr. Cray
was courted and looked up to; Mr. Cray went to dinner-parties, and
gave them; Mr. Cray's wife was fashionable and extravagant, and so
were Mr. Cray's daughters; and altogether Mr. Cray was a great man,
and spent thousands where he ought to have spent hundreds.

He had four children, not counting Oswald--Marcus and three

daughters--and it cost something to bring them out in the world.
Marcus, changeable and vacillating by nature, fixed upon half a
dozen professions or occupations for himself, before he decided
upon the one he finally embraced--that of a doctor. Chance, more
than anything else, caused him to decide on this at last. Altogether
what with home extravagance and the cost of his children, Mr. Cray
became an embarrassed man; and when he died, about two years
previous to the opening of this story, a very slender support was left
for his wife and daughters. His will did not even mention Oswald.
Two or three hundred pounds were left to Marcus--the rest to Mrs.
Cray for her life, and to go to her daughters afterwards.

Oswald had not expected any. Where a home gives no affection, it

is not very likely to give money. When Oswald had come of age he
found that his own income, of which his father was trustee, had no
only been spent upon his education, but the principal had been very
considerably drawn upon as well--in fact, it would take years to
redeem it. "I was obliged to do it, Oswald," his father said. "I could
not limit your educational expenses, and there was the heavy
premium to pay in Parliament Street. I'd willingly have paid all cost
myself; but it has not been in my power."

Oswald was not ungenerous. He grasped his father's hand and

warmly thanked him, saying it was only right his own money should
pay his cost when there were so many at home to educate. Ah, it
was not the money he regretted. Had every sixpence of it been
spent--why, it was spent--he was young and strong, with a good
profession before him, and brains and hands to work it, he could
make his own way in the world, and he should make it. No, it was
not the money; but what Oswald had been hurt at, was the manner
in which they had estranged him from his home; had kept him from
the father's affection which he had yearned for. He knew that the
fault had been Mrs. Cray's; that his father held him aloof only under
her influence. He did not allow himself to blame his father even in
his own heart; but he could not help thinking that, were he ever
placed in a similar situation, he should openly love and cherish his
first-born son, in spite of all the second wives in the world. Oswald
had yet to learn by experience how utterly futile is that boast which
we are all apt to make--that we should act so differently in other
people's places. Never was there a truer aphorism than the homely
saying: "Nobody knows where the shoe pinches save those who
wear it."

Oswald Cray had been born proud: it might be detected in every

tone of his decisive voice, in every turn of his well-set head, in every
lineament of his haughty features. He could not help it. It is well to
repeat this assertion, because pride is sometimes looked upon as a
failing demanding heavy reproach. There it was, and he could not
shake it out of him any more than he could shake out his other
qualities or feelings. It was discerned in him when a little child; it
was seen conspicuously in his schooldays; it reigned paramount in
his early manhood. "The boy has the proud spirit of his grandfather
Sir Oswald," quoth the gossips; and no doubt it was from that
quarter that it had come. Only in his later days, those years between
twenty and thirty when thought and experience were coming to him,
did it grow less observable, for he had the good sense to endeavour
to keep it in due subjection.

But it was not a bad sort of pride, after all. It was not the foolish
pride of the Oswalds generally, who deemed everybody beneath
them; it was rather that pride of innate rectitude which keeps its
owner from doing a mean, a wrong, or a disgraceful action. It was
the pride of self-esteem, of self-reliance; that feeling which says: "I
must not do so and so, for I should disgrace myself--those careless-
living men around me may do these things, but I am superior to it"
Other young men might plunge into the world's follies; pride, if no
better motive, kept Oswald Cray from them. He could not for very
shame have borne a tainted conscience; he could not have shown a
clear outside to the world, open and fearless, knowing that his heart
was foul within.

He was not proud of his family descent from the Oswalds. Quite
the contrary. He found no cause to pride himself on either the
Oswalds or the Crays. So far as the Oswalds went, many a hundred
times had he wished they were no connections of his. All his life he
had received from them nothing but slights; and slights to a man of
Oswald Cray's temperament bring the deepest mortification. He
knew now how they had treated his mother; he felt to his very heart
how they despised himself. If he could have changed his dead
grandfather into somebody else, a little less foolish and a great deal
less grand, he had been better pleased.

But this very isolation from his mother's family had tended to
foster his own pride--the mortification which it induced had fostered
it--just as the isolation from his own home, from his father and the
second family, had contributed to render him self-reliant. It is not
your home darling, bred up in fond dependence, sheltered from the
world's storms as a hothouse flower, who becomes the self-reliant
man, but he who is sent out early to rough it, who has nobody to
care for him, or to love him, in all the wide earth.

Not a more self-reliant man lived than Oswald Cray. He was sure,
under God, of himself, of his good conduct; and I think it is about
the best surety that a man or woman can carry with them through
life. In moments of doubt, perplexity, difficulty, whatever might be
its nature, he turned to his own heart and took its counsel--and it
never failed him. It was with himself he deliberated; it was his own
good judgment, his right feeling, that he called to his aid. He had an
honest, upright nature, was strictly honourable; a proud man, if it is
the proper sort of pride, nearly always is so. His ambition was great,
but not extravagant; it did not soar him aloft in flights of fancy, vain,
generally speaking, as they are absurd. He was determined to rise to
the summit of his profession--that of a civil engineer--but he
entertained no foolish dreams beyond it. To attain to that, he would
use every diligence, every effort, consistent with uprightness and
honour; and dishonourable efforts Oswald Cray would have scorned
to use, would have shaken them from him as he shook a summer-
day's dust from his shoes.

He was connected with a firm of high repute in Parliament Street:

Bracknell and Street. Oswald Cray was a partner, but his name did
not appear as yet: and, as you may readily imagine, the lion's share
of the profits did not fall to him. In fact, he had entered it very much
as his half-brother had entered the house of Dr. Davenal--to obtain a
footing. For more substantial recompense he was content to wait.
Bracknell and Street were engineers to the Hallingham line, and to
Oswald Cray had been entrusted its working and management.

He had said to Lady Oswald, in answer to her reproach of his not

calling to see her more frequently, that his time when at Hallingham
was much occupied. True, so far: but the chief and real motive
which kept him from her house was a sort of sensitive feeling
relating to her money. It was not that he dreaded people's saying he
was looking after it: he would have scorned that kind of reproach:
but he did dread lest any degree of intimacy, any pushing of himself
in her way, should cause her to leave it to him. I am not sure that
you will quite understand this; understand him or his feeling. None
but a man of the nicest honour, who was entrenched, as it were, in
his own pride, the pride of rectitude, could have felt this delicacy. He
did not want Lady Oswald's money; he knew that he had no claim
upon any of it, no right to it, and he would not put himself in her
way more than he could help, even as a passing visitor. Gossiping
Hallingham had said: "My lady would be leaving her nest-egg to Mr.
Oswald Cray." The gossip had penetrated to Mr. Oswald Cray's ears,
and his only notice of it was a haughty gesture of contempt: but in
all probability it tended to increase his dislike to go to Lady Oswald's.
During these business visits at Hallingham, he sojourned at a
respectable inn of the old school, a little beyond the town and the
Abbey Gardens, called the "Apple Tree," and had recently become
more intimate with the family of Dr. Davenal.

Driven forth all his life from his father's home, allowed to enter it
but at rare intervals, and then as a formally-invited guest, it cannot
be supposed that Oswald Cray entertained any strong affection for
his half-brother and sisters. Such a state of things would have been
unnatural, quite in opposition to ordinary probabilities. It would be
wrong to say that they disliked each other; but there was certainly
no love: civil indifference may best express the feeling. Marcus, the
eldest child of the second Mrs. Cray, was from three to four years
younger than Oswald. It had been better that Mrs. Cray had fostered
an affection between these boys, but she did just the reverse. She
resented the contempt cast on her husband by the Oswalds of
Thorndyke; she resented, most unreasonably, the fact that the little
money of the first Mrs. Cray should have descended at once to
Oswald; she even resented the child's having taken the
distinguishing name: he was Oswald Cray, her son, plain Cray. How
worse than foolish this was of her, how wrong, perhaps the woman
might yet learn: but altogether it did excite her against Oswald; and
she had kept him aloof from her own children, and encouraged
those children to be jealous of him. When the boys became men,
they met often, and were cordial enough with each other; but there
was no feeling of brotherhood, there never could be any.

For a twelvemonth after Mr. Cray's death, Mrs. Cray remained at

the Abbey, and then she left it. It was too expensive a residence for
her now--its rent swallowing up half her income. She removed with
her daughters to a watering-place in Wales, where, as she fractiously
said, she hoped they should "get along." Marcus, who had qualified
for a surgeon, became assistant to Dr. Davenal, and that gentleman
at length gave him a small share in the profits. It was not a
regularly-constituted firm--"Davenal and Cray"--nothing of the sort.
Hallingham knew that he was admitted a partner so far as receiving
a share went; and they knew that that was all.

He was liked in Hallingham, this young doctor, and Dr. Davenal

had done it in kindness, to give him a standing. As the time went on,
he would have no doubt a larger and larger share--some time
succeed to the whole. He was considered a suitable partner for the
doctor; the Crays of the Abbey had always been looked up to in the
town; and young Cray's skill as a medical man was in the ascendant.
Lady Oswald was getting to like him very much; she evinced a desire
to patronise him, to push forward his interests; and Dr. Davenal was
really in hope that she would adopt him as her attendant for
everyday calls instead of himself. Mr. Cray could spare the time for
these useless visits better than Dr. Davenal. He, Mr. Cray, resided in
lodgings in the town, and was growing in its favour daily in a
professional point of view: not that he had displayed any unusual
skill, but simply that Hallingham gave him credit for possessing it,
because they liked him.

There was a large family of the Davenals, as there was of the

Oswalds--speaking, in both cases, of the days gone by, and
comprising collateral branches. Years and years ago Surgeon
Davenal's had been a noted name in Hallingham; he had a large
practice, and he had several children. It is not necessary to speak of
all the children. Richard (the present Dr. Davenal) was the eldest
son, and had succeeded to the practice. The two other sons, Walter
and John, had chosen to enter the Church, and both, when
ordained, had gone out to the West Indies; one of them became
chaplain to the Bishop of Barbadoes, the other obtained a church in
the island. Both had married there, and Caroline Davenal was the
only child of Walter, the elder of the two.

Sara was twelve years old when her cousin Caroline arrived in
England, an orphan; father and mother were both dead. A poor
clergyman in the West Indies, dying young, was not likely to have
amassed money, and the little child, Caroline, had literally nothing.
Her father wrote an appealing letter to his brother Richard, on his
deathbed, and Richard Davenal was not one to reject it.

"She shall be my child henceforth, and Sara's sister," said he, in

the warmth of his heart, when the letter and the child arrived at
Hallingham. And so she had been.

But it was by no means so certain that Caroline Davenal would not

some time be rich. A very large sum of money was pending in her
mother's family, who were West Indians. It had become the subject
of dispute, of litigation, and was at length thrown into that
formidable court in England--Chancery. Should it be decided in one
way, Caroline would derive no benefit; if in another, she would come
in for several thousand pounds. The probabilities were in her favour-
-but Chancery, as you all know, is a capricious court, and does not
hurry itself to inconvenience.

Upon the death of Dr. Davenal's wife, his sister Bettina came to
reside with him, and to rule his children. He had but three--Richard,
Edward, and Sara. There had been others between Edward and
Sara, but they died young. Fine lads, those of Dr. Davenal, although
they took to plaguing stern Miss Bettina, and aggravatingly called
her "Aunt Bett." Fine young men, too, they grew up--well reared,
liberally educated. Richard embraced his father's profession; for
Edward a commission in the army was purchased, in accordance
with his strong wish, and he was now Captain Davenal.

And Richard Davenal, the eldest son, where was he? Ah! it was a
grievous story to look back upon. It had clouded the life of Dr.
Davenal, and would cloud it to the end. Richard was dead, and Dr.
Davenal blamed himself as the remote cause.

When Richard had completed his studies, and passed the College
of Surgeons, he returned to Hallingham, and joined his father in
practice, as it had been intended that he should. He grew greatly in
favour: he promised to be as clever as his father: and Hallingham
courted him. He was a man of attractive presence, of genial
manners, and he mixed a great deal of pleasure with his life of work.
Dr. Davenal spoke to him seriously and kindly. He said that too much
pleasure did not agree long with work, could not agree with it, and
he begged him to be more steady. Richard laughed, and said he
would. A short while, and startling news reached the ears of Dr.
Davenal--that Richard was thinking of marrying one who was
undesirable. Richard, his fine boy, of whom he was so fond and
proud, marry her! It was not against the young lady herself that so
much could be urged, but against her connections. They were most
objectionable. Dr. Davenal pointed out to Richard that to wed this
girl would be as a blight upon his prospects, a blow to his
reputation. Richard could not be brought to see it. Though not equal
to themselves in position, she was respectable, he said; and her
connections had nothing to do with it--he did not marry them, he
married her. The feud continued: not an open feud, you understand,
but an undercurrent of opposition, of coolness. Richard would not
give up his project, and Dr. Davenal would not view it with anything
but aversion. As to giving his consent, that Dr. Davenal never would;
and Richard, hitherto dutiful, was not one to go the length of
marrying in defiance.
 It was at this time, or a little before it, that the dispute had arisen
in Barbadoes touching the money already spoken of. Particulars of it
were written to Dr. Davenal by his brother John, explaining also how
Caroline's interests were involved. He, the Reverend John Davenal,
said in the same letter that he was anxious to send his two little
boys to Europe for their education, and was waiting to find them a
fit escort; he did not care to trust them alone in the ship. As Dr.
Davenal read this letter, a sudden thought darted into his mind like a
flash of lightning. What if he sent out Richard? Richard could sift the
details about this fortune, could, if expedient, urge Caroline's
interests; he could bring back the two little boys, and--and--the chief
thought of all lay behind--it might break off the engagement with
the young girl here, Fanny Parrack! Quite a glow of satisfaction came
over Dr. Davenal's face at the thought.

He sought a conference with his son. He told him that he wished

him to take a voyage to Barbadoes; that Caroline's interests required
somebody to go out; that the two little boys had no friend to bring
them over. Richard hesitated. To most young men a visit to the West
Indies would be a welcome distraction; but Richard Davenal seemed
strangely to hold back from it--to shrink from its very mention. Did
some mysterious warning of what it would bring forth for him dart
unconsciously across his spirit? Or did he fear that it might in some
way lead to his losing the young lady upon whom he had set his
heart? It cannot be known. Certain it was, remembered, oh how
remembered afterwards, that an unaccountable repugnance on
Richard's part did evince itself, and it was only to the persistent
urgent persuasion of Dr. Davenal that he at length yielded. He
yielded, as it were, under protest, and he said he did, sacrificing his
own strong wishes against it to his father's.

He set sail, and he wrote on his arrival at Barbadoes, after a fine

passage; and the next letter they received, a fortnight afterwards,
was not from him, but from his uncle, the clergyman. Richard had
died of yellow fever.
 It seemed to turn the current of Dr. Davenal's life. He blamed
himself as the cause: but for his scheming--and in that moment of
exaggerated feeling, of intense grief, he called it scheming--Richard,
his best beloved son, would be still by his side to bless him. He had
never been a scheming man, but an open and straightforward one;
and never, so long as he lived, would he scheme again. In his
unhappiness, he began to reproach himself for having needlessly
opposed Richard's marriage--to believe that he might have done
worse than in marrying Fanny Parrack. He sent for her, and he found
her a pretty, modest, gentle girl, and his repentance heaped itself
upon him fourfold. He informed her very kindly and considerately of
the unhappy fact of Richard's death, and he told her that should any
memento be found left for her amidst Richard's effects when they
arrived--any letter, no matter what--it should be given to her.

But that death had changed Dr. Davenal into an old man; in the
two years which had elapsed since, he had aged ten, both in looks
and constitution. No wonder that a spasm of pain came over his face
when Mr. Cray asked him whether he should forbid Caroline to him.
You can understand his answer now: "So long as I live I shall never
'forbid' a marriage to any over whom I hold control:" and you can
understand the anguish of the tone in which it was spoken.

And that ends the chapter of retrospect.

CHAPTER VI.

NEAL'S CURIOSITY.
 They sat around the dinner-table; Dr. Davenal, Miss Bettina, Sara,
and Caroline. It was an unusually silent table. Dr. Davenal could not
digest the demand of Mr. Cray for Caroline; Caroline was conscious
and timid; Sara scented something not altogether comfortable in the
air, and did not raise her eyes from her plate; and it was one of the
unusually deaf days of Miss Bettina.

Neal moved about noiselessly. Being a treasure of a servant, of

course he always did move noiselessly. Quite an artistic performance
was Neal's waiting; in his own person he did the waiting of three;
and so tranquilly assiduous was his mode of accomplishing it so
perfect indeed were Neal's ways in the household, that Miss Bettina
rarely let a day pass without sounding his praise.

Strange to say, the doctor did not like him. Why it was, or how it
was, he could not tell, but he had never taken heartily to Neal. So
strong was the feeling, that it may almost be said he hated Neal;
and yet the man fulfilled all his duties so well that there was no fault
to be found with him, no excuse invented for discharging him. The
doctor's last indoor man had not been anything like so efficient a
servant as Neal, was not half so fine a gentleman, had ten faults
where Neal did not appear to have one. But the doctor had liked
him, good rough honest old Giles, had kept him for many years, and
only parted with him when he got too old to work. Then Neal
presented himself. Neal had once lived with Lady Oswald; he had
been groom of the chambers at Thorndyke in Sir John's time, and
Lady Oswald kept him for a twelvemonth after Sir John's death, and
nearly cried when she parted with him; but Neal refused point-blank
to go out with the carriage, and Lady Oswald did not wish to keep
on three men-servants. Neal found a place in London, and they lost
sight of him for some years; but he made his appearance at Lady
Oswald's again one day--having come down by the new railroad to
see what change it had made in the old place, and to pay his
respects to my lady. My lady was gratified by the attention, and
inquired what he was doing. He had left his situation, he answered,
and he had some thoughts of trying for one in the country; my lady
was aware, no doubt, how close and smoky London was, and he
found that it had told upon his health; if he could hear of a quiet
place in the country he believed he might be induced to take it,
however disadvantageous it might be to him in a pecuniary point of
view. Did my lady happen to know of one? My lady did happen to
know of one: Dr. Davenal's, who was then parting with old Giles. She
thought it would be the very place for Neal; Neal the very man for
the place; and in the propensity for managing other people's
business, which was as strong upon Lady Oswald as it is upon many
more of us, she ordered her carriage and drove to Dr. Davenal's, and
never left him until he had promised Neal the situation.

In good truth, Dr. Davenal deemed that Neal would suit him very
well, provided he could bring his notions down to the place; and
that, as Lady Oswald said, Neal intended to do. But to be groom of
the chambers to a nobleman who kept his score or so of servants
(for that was understood in the town to have been Neal's situation),
and to be sole indoor manservant to a doctor, keeping three maids
only besides, and the coachman in the stables, would be a wide gulf
of difference. Neal, however, accepted the place, and Dr. Davenal
took him on the recommendation of Lady Oswald, without referring
to the nobleman in town.

But even in the very preliminary interview when the engagement

was made, Dr. Davenal felt a dislike steal over him for the man.
Instinct would have prompted him to say, "You will not suit me;"
reason overpowered it, and whispered, "He will prove an excellent
servant;" and Dr. Davenal engaged him. That was just before
Richard went out to Barbadoes, and ever since then the doctor had
been saying to himself how full of prejudice was his dislike,
considering the excellent servant that Neal proved to be. But he
could not overget the prejudice.

Neal cleared the table when the dinner was over, and placed the
dessert upon it. Dr. Davenal did not care for dessert; deemed it
waste of time to sit at it; waste of eating to partake of it: but Miss
Bettina, who favoured most of the customs and fashions of her
girlhood, would as soon have thought of dispensing with her dinner.
Dr. Davenal generally withdrew with the cloth; sometimes, if not
busy, he stayed a few minutes to chat with his daughter and
Caroline; but calls on his time and services were made after dinner
as well as before it.

On this day he did not leave his place. He sat at the foot of the
large table, Miss Davenal opposite him at its head, the young ladies
between them, one on each side. Interrupted by Lady Oswald in the
afternoon, he had not yet spoken to Caroline; and that he was
preparing to do now.

He drew his chair near to her, and began in a low tone. Sara rose
soon, and quitted the room; Miss Davenal was deaf; they were, so
to say, alone.

"My dear, Mr. Cray is not the man I would have preferred to
choose for you. Are you aware how very small is the income he
derives from his partnership with me?"

Caroline caught up the glistening damask dessert napkin, and

began pulling out the threads of its fringe. "His prospects are very
fair, Uncle Richard."

"Fair enough, insomuch as that he may enjoy the whole of this

practice in time. But that time may be long in coming, Caroline;
twenty years hence, for all we know. I shall be but seventy then,
and my father at seventy was as good a man as I am now."

Her fingers pulled nervously at the fringe, and she did not raise
her eyes. "I hope you will live much longer than that, Uncle
Richard."

"So long as I live, Caroline, and retain my health and strength, so

long shall I pursue my practice and take its largest share of profits.
Mr. Cray understood that perfectly when I admitted him to a small
share as a partner. I did it for his sake, to give him a standing. I had
no intention of taking a partner: I wished only for an assistant; but
out of regard to his prospects, to give him a footing, I say, I let him
have a trifling share, suffered it to be known in Hallingham that he
was made a partner of by Dr. Davenal. He has but two hundred a-
year from me."

"It does not cost much to live," said Caroline. "We need not keep
many servants."

Dr. Davenal paused, feeling that she was hopelessly

inexperienced. "My dear, what do you suppose it costs us to live as
we do?--here, in this house?"

"Ever so much," was Caroline's lucid answer.

"It costs me something like twelve hundred a-year, Caroline, and I

have no house-rent to pay."

She did not answer. Miss Davenal's sharp eyes caught sight of
Caroline's damaging fingers, and she called out to know what she
was doing with the dessert napkin. Caroline laid it on the table
beside her plate.

"I cannot afford to increase Mr. Cray's salary very much,"

continued Dr. Davenal. "To reduce my own style of living I do not
feel inclined, and Edward draws largely upon me. Extravagant chaps
are those young officers!" added the doctor, falling into abstraction.
"There's not one of them, as I believe, Makes his pay suffice."

He paused. Caroline took up a biscuit and began crumbling it on

her plate.

"The very utmost that I could afford to give him would be four
hundred per annum," resumed Dr. Davenal "and I believe that I shall
inconvenience myself to do this. But that's not it. There"----
 "Oh, Uncle Richard, it is ample. Four hundred a-year! We could
not spend it."

He shook his head at the impulsive interruption; at its unconscious

ignorance. "Caroline, I was going to say that the mere income is not
all the question. If you marry Mr. Cray, he can make no settlement
upon you; more than that, he has no home, no furniture. I think he
has been precipitate; inconsiderately so, few men would ask a young
lady to be their wife until they had a house to take her to; or money
in hand to procure one."

Caroline's eyes filled with tears. She had hard work to keep them
from dropping.

"Carine," he said caressingly, "is it quite irrevocable, this

attachment?"

The tears went down on the crumbled biscuit. She murmured

some words which the doctor but imperfectly caught; only just
sufficiently so to gather that it was irrevocable--or that at any rate
the young lady thought so. He sighed.

"Listen to me, child. I should never attempt to oppose your

inclinations; I should not think of forbidding any marriage that you
had set your heart upon. If you have fixed on Mr. Cray, or he on you-
-it comes to the same--I will not set my will against it. But one thing
I must urge upon you both--to wait."

"Do you dislike Mr. Cray, Uncle Richard?"

"Dislike him! no, child. Have I not made him my partner? I like
him personally very much. I don't know whether he has much
stability," continued the doctor, in a musing tone, as though he were
debating the question with himself. "But let that pass. My objection
to him for you, Caroline, is chiefly on a pecuniary score."

"I am sure we shall have enough," she answered, in a lower tone.

 "If I give my consent, Carry, I shall give it under protest; and
make a bargain with you at the same time."

Caroline lifted her eyes. His voice had turned to a jesting one.

"What protest?---what bargain?" she asked.

"That I give the consent in opposition to my better judgment. The

bargain is, that when you find you have married imprudently and
cannot make both ends meet, you don't turn round and blame me."

She bent her eyes with a smile and shook her head in answer, and
began twisting the chain that lay upon her fair neck, the bracelets on
her pretty arms. She wore the same rich dress that she had worn in
the afternoon, as did Sara; but the high bodies had been exchanged
for low ones, the custom for dinner at Dr. Davenal's.

"I will not withhold my consent. But," he added, his tone changing
to the utmost seriousness, "I shall recommend you both to wait. To
wait at least a year or two. You are very young, only twenty."

"I am twenty-one, Uncle Richard," she cried out. "It is Sara who is
only twenty."

He smiled at the eagerness. One year seems so much to the

young.

"Twenty-one, then: since last week, I believe. And Mark is three or

four years older. You can well afford to wait. A year or two's time
may make a wonderful difference in the position of affairs. Your
share of that disputed property may have come to you, rendering a
settlement upon you feasible; and Mark, if he chooses to be saving,
may have got chairs and tables together. Perhaps I may increase his
share at once to help him do it."

"Would you be so kind as enlighten me as to the topic of your

conversation with Caroline, Dr. Davenal?"
 The interruption come from Miss Bettina. Deaf as she was, it was
impossible for her not to perceive that some subject of unusual
moment was being discussed, and nothing annoyed her more than
to fancy she was purposely kept in the dark. For the last five
minutes she had sat ominously upright in her chair. Very upright she
always did sit, at all times and seasons; but in moments of
displeasure this stiff uprightness was unpleasantly perceptible. Dr.
Davenal rose from his seat and walked towards her, bending his face
a little. He had a dislike to talk to her on her very deaf days: it made
him hoarse for hours afterwards.

"Caroline wants to be married, Bettina?"

Miss Bettina did catch the right words this time, but she doubted
it. She had not yet learnt to look upon Caroline as aught but a child.
Could the world have gone round in accordance with the ideas of
Miss Bettina, nobody with any regard to propriety would have
married in it until the age of thirty was past. Her cold grey eyes and
her mouth gradually opened as she looked from her brother to her
niece, from her niece to her brother.

"Wants to be what, did you say?"

"To be married, Aunt Bett," cried out the doctor. "It's the fashion,
it seems, with the young folks nowadays! You were not in so great a
hurry when you were young?"

The doctor spoke in no covert spirit of joking--as a stranger might

have supposed, Miss Davenal being Miss Davenal still. Bettina
Davenal had had her romance in life. In her young days, when she
was not much older than Caroline, a poor curate had sought to make
her his wife. She was greatly attached to him, but he was very, very
poor, and prudence said, "Wait until better times shall come for
him." Miss Bettina's father and mother were alive then; the latter a
great invalid, and that also weighed with her, for in her duty and
affection she did not like to leave her home. Ay, cold and
unsympathising as she appeared to be now, Bettina Davenal had
once been a warm, loving girl, an affectionate daughter. And so, by
her own fiat, she waited and waited, and in her thirtieth year that
poor curate, never promoted to be a richer one, had died--had died
of bad air, and hard work, and poor nourishment. His duties were
cast in the midst of one of our worst metropolitan localities; and
they were heavy, and his stipend was small. From that time Bettina
Davenal's disposition had changed; she grew cold, formal, hard:
repentance, it was suspected, was ever upon her, that she had not
risked the prudence and saved his life. Her own fortune added to
what he earned, would at least have kept him from the ills of
poverty.

"Who wants to marry her?" questioned Miss Davenal, when she

could take her condemning eyes away from Caroline.

"Mark Cray."

The words seemed to mollify Miss Davenal in a slight degree, and

her head relaxed a very little from its uprightness. "She might do
worse, Richard. He is a good man, and I dare say he is making
money. Those civil engineers get on well."

"I said Mark Cray, Aunt Bett," repeated the doctor.

"Mark! He won't do. He is only a boy. He has got neither house

nor money."

"Just what I say," said the doctor. "I tell her they must wait."

"Mad! to be sure they must be mad, both of them," complaisantly

acquiesced Miss Davenal.

"Wait, I said, Bettina," roared the doctor.

"You need not rave at me, Richard. I am not as deaf as a post.

Who says anything about 'fate?' Fate, indeed! don't talk of fate to
me. Where's your common-sense gone?"

"Wait, I said, Aunt Bett! Wa-a-a-it! I tell them they must wait."

"No," said Aunt Bett. "Better break it off."

"I don't think they will," returned the doctor.

Miss Bettina turned her eyes on Caroline. That young lady, left to
herself, had pretty nearly done for the damask napkin. She dreaded
but one person in the world, and that was stern Aunt Bettina. Miss
Bettina rose in her slow stately fashion, and turned Caroline's
drooping face towards her.

"What in the world has put it into your head to think of Mark
Cray?"

"I didn't think of him before he thought of me," was poor

Caroline's excuse, which, as a matter of course, Miss Davenal did not
catch.

"Has it ever occurred to you to reflect, Caroline, how very serious

a step is that of settlement in life?"

"We shall get along, Aunt Bettina."

"I'll not get along," exclaimed Miss Bettina, her face darkening. "I
attempt to say a little word to you for your good, for your own
interest, and you tell me 'to get along!' How dare you, Caroline
Davenal?"

"Oh, Aunt Bettina! I said we should get along."

"I don't know that you would get along if you married Mark Cray. I
don't like Mark Cray. I did not think"----

"Why don't you like him, aunt?"

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