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 For some time he sat there trying to force his mind to work but there was one idea that he could not get rid of—Why did he not enjoy things? Why could he not go about life in the careless, happy fashion, after the manner of so many people about him? Even Hart seemed to be catching it,—he was being sought after, his friendship seemed to be desired. He was going to make a success. Poor Heaphy sighed. If there had been a feminine streak in his nature he might have wept.

There were many things, however, that the young man with a purpose did not bring into his reasoning. His life had been a most peculiar one, to explain which takes us back to his early youth. It had been spent in luxury. He had been born in a house with a large French mansard roof, and there were any number of beautiful cast-iron statues in the front yard before it—Dianas, Newfoundland dogs, and stags, not forgetting a spurty little fountain with a slimy green cherub.

It was a remarkable fact that Patrick Corse Heaphy's father had had one large regret when his son was born. It was that this small, gurgling, spluttering bunch of life would have to