Lord Wilton was in London; he had been called away suddenly to meet his son who had left the army on the sick list, and was reported by the surgeon of the regiment as being far gone in consumption.
"It will be a dreadful blow to the Earl, if he should lose his son," said Mr. Martin, as he walked home from church with the vicar. "In such case who would be the heir?"
"My brother Francis."
"And where is he at present?"
"That would be a difficult question to answer. Here and there and everywhere. Like most young men of the world, where ever pleasure or love of excitement leads him. Should this title fall to him, I fear it would be the very worst thing that could happen to him."
"That does not necessarily follow."
"My dear friend, an increase of wealth to men of very dissipated habits, seldom leads to improvement. It only gives them a greater opportunity of being wicked. I would much rather the Earl married again."
"That is not at all likely. He seems to have outlived all human passion. His hopes and affections are entirely centred in this son."
"How dreadful is the rending asunder of ties that bind us closely to the earth," said Mr. Fitzmorris. "I speak from painful experience—but it must be done to bring us to God with whole and undivided hearts. It is only through much suffering, mental or physical, but generally both combined, that men come to a knowledge of their own weakness, and the all-sufficiency of Christ, to satisfy the cravings of the soul, for a higher and more perfect state of existence."
"By the hints you threw out in your sermon, Mr. Fitzmorris, I was led to imagine that your own conversion had been brought about by some heavy affliction."