HENRY ASHLEY'S OBJECT IN LIFE.
On one of the warm, bright days that we sometimes have in the month of February, all the brighter from their contrast to the passing winter, William Halliburton was walking home to tea from the manufactory, and overtook Henry Ashley limping along.
Henry was below the middle height, and slight in form, with the same beautiful face that had marked his boyhood, delicately refined in feature, brilliant in colour; the same upright lines of pain knit in the smooth white brow.
"Just the man I wanted," said he, linking his arm within William's. "You are a good help up a hill, and I am hot and tired."
"Wrapped up in that coat, with its fur lining, I should think you are! I have doffed my elegant cloak, you see, to-day."
"Is it off to the British Museum?"
William laughed. "I have not had time to pack it up."
"I am glad I met you. You must come home to tea with me. Well? Why are you hesitating? You have no engagement?"
"Nothing more than usual. My studies——"
"You are study mad!" interrupted Henry Ashley. "What do you want to be? A Socrates? An Admirable Crichton?"