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at something. If she can make something of herself, why cannot I? I am a man, or ought to be. Why should not I cultivate myself into somebody, as well as a slip of a girl with a shady father ?”

To this final question no immediate answer could be given.

“ All right,” said Harefel, with a provoking absence of enthusiasm; and as some heavy drops began to fall, they went hastily to their hotel.

PART III.

CHAPTER XI.

“A KIND OF YESTY COLLECTION.”

“So you are going in for culture,” said Kerisen, sitting lightly on the arm of an easy-chair in Dale's lodgings at Oxford. He smiled as he said it—a smile pleasant in spite of mockery.

“I am going to try to be less of a fool,” said Dale, laughing. Since he reached England, Irvine had been in a mood unusually robust. Fresh from the brown hues of Tuscany and the level plains of France, he looked on the rounded hills and wooded valleys of England as on a new world. Everywhere was tender green under white fleecy clouds. All foreign parts seemed to his memory but glare and dust. The childhood of the year filled him with joy and hope. He, too, was a child. It should not be his fault if the man were not worth something. Thus it happened, that while his

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