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DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. -V face fall of delight, -which touched me, while at i it fill * the same time it filled me with envy. Even the major thought fit to give me a hearty “Glad to see you again,~ he naia, y i..„ a tly enough,' V* It’s a relief to have a fresh face to look at. | We have a room which is quite at your disposal, and 1 hope you’ll stay with us. Brought your portmanteau, eh?” “ It is at the station,” I replied. “Bee feat it is sent for,” he said to Derrick; “and sjRw Mr. Wharncliffe all that is to be seen in this cursed hole of a place.” Then, again turning to me, “Have you lunchod? Very well, then, don’t waste this fine afternoon in an invalid’s room, but be off and enjoy your self.” So cordial was the old man that I should have thought him already a reformed character, had I not found that he kept the rough side of his tongue for home use. Derrick placed a novel and a small hand-bell within his reach, and we were just going, when we were checked by a volley of oaths from the major; then a book came flying across the room, well aimed at Der rick’s ‘ * ' ‘ r for a couple of hours “ Yes, I write general! before breakfast, he sail And that evening we sat by his gas-stove and he read me the next four chapters of “ Lyn- * He had rather a dismal lodging-house iwnmrtiwr'wiiii 'ani.il wJjMaflc and prosaic snuff-colored carpet. On a ncfeotV tame hr window was his desk, and a portfolio full of blue foolscap; but he had done what he could to make tne place habitable: his Oxford pictures were on the walls—Hoffmann’s “ Christ speak ing to the Woman taken in Adultery ” hanging over the mantel-pieoe—it had always been a favorite of his. I remember tnat, as he read the description of Lynwood and his wife, I kept looking from him to the Christ in the picture, till I could almost have fancied that each face bore the same expression. Had his strange, monotonous life with that old brute of a a major brought him some new perception of those words, “Neither do I condemn thee”? But when he stopped reading, I, true to mv charac ter, forgot his affairs in my own, and we sat talking far into the night—talking of that luck less month at Mondisfield, of all the prob- He stepped aside, and let it fall iema it had opened up, and of my wretched- with a crash on the sideboard. 41 What do you mean by giving me the second volume when you know I am in the third?” third vol- vou fumed the invalid. He apologized quietly, fetched the ume, straightened the disordered leaves of the discarded second, and with the air of one well accustomed to such little domestic scenes, took up his hat and came out with me. How long do yon intend to go on playing tarvelii David to the major’s Saul?” 1 asked, marveling ijo . at the way in which he endured the humors of his father, “ As long as I have the chance,” he replied. “I say, are you sure you won’t mind staying with us ? It can’t be a very comfortable house hold for an outsider.” * Much better than for an insider, to all ap pearance,” I^replied.^ “I’m only too delighted coming in after dinner, “ for, you kncv,” k explained to me, “ I really couldn’t get thro* a meal with nothing but those infernal riinenl waters to wash it down.” And here I must own that at my first uatl had sailed rather close to the wind; fra vte major, like the hatter in “ Alice," pressea me to take wine, I—not seeing auj-5a«t i> i swered that I did not take it; menially afct tj the words “in your house, you brute.” The two brothers were fond of each Otis' after a fashion. But Derrick was human, lii< the rest of us; and I’m pretty sure he did sot | much enjoy the sight of his father’s foolish i®i nnreasonin g devotion to Lawrence. If yon w® to think of it, he would have been a fdl-nwgK angel if no jealous pang, no reflection this i- was rather rough on himinad crossedhispund, when he saw ms younger brother treated w every mark of respect and liking, andknento-- Lawrence would never stir a finger to here u» poor fractious invalid. Unluckily they up- iened one night to get on tho subject of £»■ Sessions. only stay. And now, ol<l fellow, tell me the honest truth—you didn’t, you know, in your letter; how have you been getting on?” Derrick launched into an account of his father’s ailments. “Oh, hang the major, I don’t care about him, I want to know about you,” I cried. “ About me ?” said Derrick, doubtfully. “ Oh, I’m right enough.” “What do you do with yourself? How on earth do you kill time ?” I asked. “ Come, give me a full, true and particular account of it all.” “ We have tried threo other servants,” said Derrick: “ bat the plan doesn’t answer. They either won’t stand it, or else they are bribed into smuggling brandy into the house. I find I can do most things for my father, and in the morning he has an attendant from the hospital who$s trustworthy, and who does what is neces sary for him. At ten we breakfast together, then there are the morning papers which he likes to have reall to him. After that I go round to the Pnmp Room with him—odd contrast now to what it must have been when Bath was the rage. Then we have lunch. In the afternoon, if he is well enough, we drive; if not, he sleeps, and I get a walk. Later on an old Indian friend of his will sometimes drop in; if not, he likes to read until dinner. After dinner we play chess—he is a first-rate player. At ten I help him to bed ; from eleven to twelve I smoke and study Social ism, and all the rest of it that Lynwood is at present floundering in.” “ Why don’t you write then ?” “I tried it, but it didn’t answer. I couldn’t sleep after it, and was in fact too tired; seems absurd to be tired after such a day as that, bnt somehow it takes it ont of one more than the hardest reading; I don’t know why.” “ Why,” I said angrily, “ it’s because it is work to which you are quite nnsuited—work for a thin-skinned, hard-hearted, uncultivated and well-paid attendant, not for the novelist who is to be the chief light of our generation.” He laughed at this estimate of his powers. “Novefists, like other cattle, have to obey their owner,” he said, lightly. I thought for the moment that he meant the major, and was breaking into an angry remon stance, when I saw that he meant something quite different. It was alwa ” ■ ness. “ You were in town all September?” he asked; “ you gave up Blanchington ?” “ Yes,” I replied. “ What did I care for coun try houses in such a mood as that?” He' acquiesced, and I went on talking of my grievances, and it was not till I was in the train, on my way back to London, that I remembered how a look of disappointment had passed over his face just at the moment. Evidently he had counted on learning something about Freda from me, and 1—well, I had clean forgotten both her existence and his passionate love. Something, probably self-interest, the desire for my friend’s company, and so forth, took me down to Bath pretty frequently in those days; luckily the major had a sort of liking for me, and was always polite enough; and dear old Derrick-well, I believe my visits really helped to brighten him np. At any rate he said he couldn't have borne his life without them, and for a skeptical, dismal, cynical fellow like me to hear that was somehow flattering. The mere force of contrast did me good. Lnsed to come back on the Jlondav wondering that Derrick didn’t ent his throat, and realizing that, after all, it was something to be a free agent, and to have comfortable rooms in Montague Street, and no old bear of a drunkard to disturb my peace. And the a a sort of admiration sprang up in my heart, and the cynicism bred of melan choly broodings over solitary pipes was less rampant than usual. It was, I think, early in the new year that I met Lawrence Vanghan in Bath. He was not staying at Gay Street, so I oould still have the vacant room next to Derrick’s. Lawrence put up at the York House Hotel. 1 “ For yon know,” he informed me, “ I really can’t stand the governor for more than an hour +.OTG of A fimA • 1 It’s a comfort,” said the major, in his» castic way, “to have a fellow-soldier to us* instead of quite different. It was always his strongest point, this extraordinary consciousness of right, this unwavering belief that he had to do and id do therefore could do certain things. Without this, I know that he never wrote a line, and in my heart I believe that this was the cause of his success. “ Then you are not writing at all ?” I asked. or two at a time. “ Derrick manages to do it,” I said. “Oh, Derrick, yes,” he replied," it’s his metier, and he is well accustomed to the life. Besides, you know, he is such a dreamv, quiet sort of fellow; he lives &U the time in a world of his own creation, and bears the discomforts of this world with great philosophy. Actually ho has turned teetotaler f It would kill me in a week.” 1 make a like as i iookou as mm, to shut him up with the major for a month and see what would happen. These twin brothers were curiously alike in face and curiously unlike in nature. So much for the great science of physiognomy. It often seemed to me that they were the complement of eaoh other. For instance, Derrick in societv was extremely silent, Lawrence was a rattling talker; Derrick when alone with yon would now and then reveal nnsnspeoted depths of thought 8sno « ’ Lawrence when alone with you tvST showed himself to he a cad. The elder twin was modest and diffident, the inclined to brag; the one haO a strong £* e otl »or was blessed or cursed with the sort of temperament which fc,r4 h ~ rt “ a “.or® than an hour or two was a prime favorite ^th the old man; that was just the way of the world. Of course, the major was as polite as possible to him; "—’ ’ - rence the halfpe In the evenin of a quill-driver, who as yet is no'CW _ r --a-liner. Eh, Derrick? pent™ 1 ** inclined to regret your fool's choice no* * might have been starting off for Lawrence next week if you hadat chosen you’re pleased to call a literary life. MJv life, indeed I I little thought a son of would ever have been so wanting in S refer dabbling in ink to a life of action - ie scribbler of mere words, rather than an cer of dragoons.” Then to my astonishment Derrick spn-V his feet in hot indignation. 1 new sav look so handsome, beforo or since ; anger was not the distorting decihjh .S® that the major gave way to, but real di'n> n S u wrath. . , “ You speak contemptuously of mewh, ,C« he said, m a low voice, yet more c.eanjw» usual, and as if tho words were wrun, # him. “What right have you to look & , ^ one of the greatest weapons of the ^ why is a writer to submit to scoffs ana - and tamely hear his profession reviiea. chosen to write the messago that has ne , me, and I don’t regret ^ b0 1 lc ' e ; 1 imvfr*- have shown greater spirit if I dom and right of judgment to bo one national killing machines ?” . , With that ho threw down his cards ani out of the room in a white heat of “V, • jjj a pity he made that last remark, for' in tho wrong, and needlessly annoyed ^ and the major. But an angry man n • $ to weigh his words, and, as 1 * Juj* Derrick was very human, anil wnen' intolerably could on occasion retail*' • . e j j, The major uttered an oath pern* astonishment at the retreating nfP-, re ' was such an extraordinarily long-suffering son as a rule, that ' - ver , it was startling in the extreme. ^ r iled tho game, and the o!il result of his own ill-nature, an' 1 , bring back his partner, was himself to chess. I left him grow 1 n ° n ,ived Lawrence about the vanity °f ^ 11» out in the hope of finding Dernc • w ^ the honse I saw some one turn th the Circus, and starting in ° opC ts * tail dark figure where Bennett Streei ir to the Lansdowne Hill. , »I sat* “ I’m glad you spoke up, old h > ^ taking his arm. , He modified his pace a little- Ljjonc* he exclaimed, “that every other . be taken seriously, but that a God! supposed to be mere play ? ^ we suffer enough ? Have won a work and drudgery of de f k fMublcsoma <j# gathering of sbuistics and t* 0 ** .falling into details ? Have we not an *PP" e Bl) t it of responsibility on usanil a., mercy of a thousand capricious c th “dome now,” I exclaimed pou^ you we never so happy as y ^ m “Of course.” he replied; to Of course,” he make me resent such an ha vew :; , sides, you don’t know what it is tc a in snch an atmosphere as ^ #ot ^ thook, toS ? thechapters are wreW> ^ utterly dissatisfied with them. „ ^ j- “As for that,” I said, calmly^ jndgo at all. wo played whist, Lawrenco your own work; the last bit is