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Chapter 6: Using Methods

TRUE/FALSE

1. A method cannot be used more than once within a program or in other programs.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 207

2. The three parts of a method are the method’s header, the method’s body, and the method’s return
statement.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 207-208

3. In a flowchart, you draw the main() method and every other method separately with its own sentinel
symbols.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 208

4. The more the statements contribute to the same job, the less the functional cohesion of the method.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 211-212

5. In every object-oriented programming language, the variables and constants declared in any method
are usable anywhere within the program.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 213

6. An argument can be passed into a method in two ways: by value and by reference.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 218

7. You can pass an entire array to a method, or individual array element values.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 229

8. Overloading a method is a good idea because it eliminates some programming work compared to
writing separate methods.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 232

9. You should avoid overloading a method with the same argument data types because this will create an
ambiguous method that will not compile.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 237

10. Most programming languages contain a variety of mathematical methods, such as those that compute a
square root or the absolute value of a number.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 238

MULTIPLE CHOICE
1. One advantage of modularization is that it simplifies the ____.
a. functions c. logic
b. arguments d. subroutines
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 205

2. Methods are sometimes called ____.

a. segments c. classes
b. modules d. routines
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 205

3. Modularization provides ____.

a. ambiguity c. detail focus
b. complexity d. abstraction
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 205

4. ____ is the feature of programs and methods that assures you each has been tested and proven to
function correctly.
a. Modularization c. Portability
b. Reliability d. Reusability
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 207

5. A method’s ____ includes the method identifier and possibly other necessary identifying information.
a. title c. header
b. space d. opener
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 207

6. A method’s ____ consists of the method’s statements.

a. body c. space
b. space d. group
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 208

7. Programmers say that data items are ____ only after they have been declared and within the method in
which they are declared.
a. available c. visible
b. identified d. useable
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 213

8. Programmers say that variables and constants declared within a method are ____ only after declaration
within that method.
a. in line c. out of scope
b. useable d. in scope
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 213

9. ____ variables and constants are those that are known to an entire class.
a. Global c. Universal
b. Local d. Comprehensive
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 214
10. The variables in the method declaration that accept the values from the actual parameters are the ____
parameters.
a. signature c. formal
b. actual d. recognized
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 214

11. What is one item that must be included in a method’s header if it can receive a parameter?
a. local parameter name c. parameter’s client
b. global parameter name d. return data structure
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 218

12. With ____, you make a request to a method without knowing the details of how the method works.
a. implementation masking c. method hiding
b. method masking d. implementation hiding
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 220

13. Programmers refer to hidden implementation details as existing in a ____.

a. white box c. black box
b. white hole d. black hole
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 220

14. The arguments sent to a method in a method call are often referred to as ____ parameters.
a. signature c. formal
b. actual d. recognized
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 214

15. A method’s name and parameter list constitute the method’s ____.
a. identity c. fingerprint
b. autograph d. signature
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 220

16. The ____ type for a method can be any type, which includes numeric, character, and string, as well as
other more specific types that exist in the programming language you are using.
a. return c. case
b. data d. variable
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 222

17. A method can return nothing, which makes it a(n) ____ method.
a. empty c. open
b. void d. valid
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 222

18. When a method returns a value, you usually want to use it in the ____ method.
a. working c. return
b. current d. calling
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 223

19. In most programming languages, you are allowed to include multiple ____ statements in a method.
 a. return c. back
b. end d. depart
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 227

20. Arrays are passed to a method by ____.

a. type c. reference
b. class d. value
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 229

21. Simple non-array variables are usually passed to methods by ____.

a. value c. type
b. reference d. class
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 218

22. You can indicate that a method parameter must be an array by placing ____ after the data type in the
method’s parameter list.
a. a place holder c. parentheses
b. square brackets d. curly brackets
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 229

23. When you ____ a method, you write multiple methods with a shared name but different parameter
lists.
a. redo c. reload
b. repurpose d. overload
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 232

24. When you overload a method, you run the risk of creating ____ methods—a situation in which the
compiler cannot determine which method to use.
a. ambiguous c. vague
b. uncertain d. unclear
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 235

25. Methods can be ____ correctly by providing different parameter lists for methods with the same name.
a. updated c. overloaded
b. tested d. passed
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 237

COMPLETION

1. ____________________ is the process of paying attention to important properties while ignoring

nonessential details.

ANS: Abstraction

PTS: 1 REF: 205

2. An advantage of ____________________ is that multiple programmers can work on a large problem.

 ANS:
modularization
modular programming

PTS: 1 REF: 205

3. A(n) ____________________ is a reasonable unit of programming, designed to tackle one small task
at a time.

ANS:
module
procedure
subprocedure
function
subroutine

PTS: 1 REF: 205

4. The feature of modular programs that allows individual methods to be used in a variety of applications
is known as ____________________.

ANS: reusability

PTS: 1 REF: 207

5. If you declare variables and constants within the methods that use them, the methods are more
____________________.

ANS: portable

PTS: 1 REF: 214

6. When a method receives an argument, it is stored as a(n) ____________________ in the method

header.

ANS: parameter

PTS: 1 REF: 214

7. When you pass an argument by ____________________, the method receives its own copy of the
value.

ANS: value

PTS: 1 REF: 218

8. When a method’s local variables go ____________________, they cease to exist, or die.

ANS:
out of scope
out-of-scope

PTS: 1 REF: 213

 9. The method name and parameter list taken together form the ____________________ of the method.

ANS: signature

PTS: 1 REF: 220

10. The ____________________ type of a method indicates the data type of the value that the method will
send back to the location where the method call was made.

ANS: return

PTS: 1 REF: 222

11. When a method needs to use another method, it ____________________ that other method.

ANS:
calls
invokes

PTS: 1 REF: 208

12. ____________________ variables are known to the entire class.

ANS: Global

PTS: 1 REF: 214

13. When a method returns nothing, it is known as a(n) ____________________ method.

ANS: void

PTS: 1 REF: 222

14. When you create methods with the same name but with different parameter lists, those methods are
known as ____________________.

ANS:
overloaded
overloaded methods

PTS: 1 REF: 232

15. Overloading a method is an example of ____________________, the ability of a method to act

appropriately according to the context.

ANS: polymorphism

PTS: 1 REF: 232

Other documents randomly have
different content
 CHAPTER V

GOING DOWN.

On the evening of the day appointed for the dinner, Mr. Philip
Deane stood on the steps of Barton's restaurant in the Strand, in
anything but a contented frame of mind. His face, never too frank or
genial in its expression, was puckered and set in rigid lines; his right
hand was perpetually diving into his waistcoat-pocket for his watch,
to which he constantly referred; while with, a light stick which he
carried in his left, he kept striking his leg in an irritable and irritating
manner.

Mr. Deane had cause for annoyance; it was a quarter past seven,
and neither of the guests whom he had invited had as yet appeared,
though the dinner had been appointed for seven sharp. Crowds of
men were pouring into and out of the restaurant, the first hungry
and expectant, the last placid and replete; and Mr. Deane envied the
first for what they were about to receive, and the last for what they
had received. Moreover, the intended diners had in several cases
pushed against him with scant ceremony, and Mr. Deane was not
accustomed to be pushed against; while the people who had dined
eyed him, as they stood on the steps lighting their cigars, with
something like compassion, and Mr. Deane was unused to be pitied.
So he stood there fretting and fuming, and biting his lips and flicking
his legs, until his shoulder was grasped by George Dallas, who, with
as much breath as he could command--not much, for he had been
running--said:
 "My dear Deane! a thousand apologies for being so late! Not my
own fault, I protest!"

"Never is, of course," said Mr. Deane.

"Really it was not in this instance. I went round to the Mercury

office to look at some proofs, and they kept me to do an article on a
subject which I had had the handling of before, and which--"

"No one else could handle arter you, eh? Pretty tall opinion you
newspaper-writin' fellows have of yourselves! And why didn't you
bring Routh with you when you did come!"

"Routh! I haven't seen him for three days. Isn't he here!"

"Not he! I've been coolin' myself on this a'mighty old doorstep
since seven o'clock, only once goin' inside just to look round the
saloon, and I've not set eyes on him yet."

"How very odd!"

"So very odd, that I'll see him somethingest before I wait for him
any longer! Come you in with me. I took a table right slick opposite
the door, and we'll go and strike up at once."

He turned on his heel as he spoke, and walked up the passage

into the large coffee-room of the restaurant. Dallas, who followed
him closely, noticed him pause for an instant before one of the
looking-glasses in the passage, put his hat a little more on one side,
and throw open the folds of his fur-lined coat. Beneath this
noticeable garment Mr. Deane wore a large baggy suit of black, an
open-worked shirt-front with three large diamond studs in it, a heavy
gold watch-chain. There was a large diamond ring on the little finger
of each hand. Thus tastefully attired, Mr. Deane, swaggering easily
up the centre of the coffee-room and slapping his leg with his stick
as he went, at length stopped at a vacant table, and clinked a knife
against a tumbler.
 "Now, waiter! Just look smart and slippy, and bring up our dinner
right away. One of my friends is here, and I'm not a-goin' to wait for
the other. He must take his chance, he must; but bring up ours at
once, d'ye hear? Why, what on airth is this?"

"This" was a boy of about twelve years of age, with a dirty face
and grimy hands, with an old peakless cap on its head, and a very
shiny, greasy, ragged suit on its back. "This" seemed to have been
running hard, and was out of breath, and was very hot and damp in
the face. Following Mr. Deane's glance, the waiter's eyes lighted on
"this," and that functionary immediately fell into wrathful vernacular.

"Hullo! what are you doing here?" said he. "Come, you get out of
this, d'ye hear?"

"I hear," said the boy, without moving a muscle. "Don't you flurry
yourself in that way often, or you'll bust! And what a go that'd be!
You should think of your precious family, you should!"

"Will you--"

"No, I won't, and that's all about it. Here, guv'nor "--to Deane--
"you're my pitch; I've brought this for you." As he said this, the boy
produced from his pocket a bit of string, a pair of musical bones,
and a crumpled note, and handed the latter to Deane, who stepped
aside to the nearest gas-jet to read it. To the great indignation of the
waiter, the boy sat himself down on the edge of a chair, and, kicking
his legs to and fro, surveyed the assembled company with calm
deliberation. He appeared to be taking stock generally of everything
round him. Between his dirty finger and thumb he took up a corner
of the table-cloth, then he passed his hand lightly over Dallas's
overcoat, which was lying on an adjacent chair. This gave the waiter
his chance of bursting out again.

"Leave that coat alone, can't you? Can't you keep your fingers off
things that don't belong to you? Thought it was your own, perhaps,
didn't you?" This last remark, in a highly sarcastic tone, as he lifted
the coat from the chair and was about to carry it to a row of pegs by
the door. "This ain't your mark, I believe? Your tailor don't live at
Hamherst, does he?"

"Never mind my tailor, old cock! P'raps you'd like my card, but I've
'appened to come out without one. But you can have my name and
address--they're very haristocratic, not such as you're used to. Jim
Swain's my name--Strike-a-light Jim--60 Fullwood's-rents. Now, tell
me who's your barber!" The waiter, who had a head as bald as a
billiard-ball, was highly incensed at this remark (which sent some
young men at an adjoining table into roars of laughter), and he
would probably have found some means of venting his wrath, had
not a sharp exclamation from Deane called off his attention.

"Get up dinner, waiter, at once, and clear off this third place, d'ye
hear? The other gentleman ain't comin'. Now, boy, what are you
waiting for?"

"No answer to go back, is there, guv'nor?"

"Answer? No; none."

"All right. Shall I take that sixpence of you now, or will you give it
me to-morrow? Short reck'nings is my motter. So if you're goin' to
give it, hand it over."

Unable to resist a smile, Deane took a small coin from his purse
and handed it to the boy, who looked at it, put it in his pocket,
nodded carelessly to Deane and Dallas, and departed, whistling
loudly.

"Routh is not coming, I suppose?" said Dallas as they seated

themselves at the table.

"No, he has defected, like a cussed skunk as he is, after giving me

the trouble to order his dinner, which I shall have to pay for all the
same. Regular riles me, that does, to be put in the hole for such a
one-horse concern as Mr. Routh. He ought to know better than to
play such tricks with me."

"Perhaps he is compelled to absent himself. I know--"

"Compelled! That might do with some people, but it won't nohow

do with me. I allow no man to put a rudeness on me. Mr. Routh
wants more of me than I do of him, as I'll show him before long. He
wants me to come to his rooms to-morrow night--that's for his
pleasure and profit, I guess, not mine--just depends on the humour
I'm in. Now here's the dinner. Let's get at it at once. There's been no
screwin' nor scrapin' in the ordering of it, and you can just give
Routh a back-hander next time you see him by telling him how much
you liked it."

Deane unfolded his table napkin with a flourish, and cleared a

space in front of him for his plate. There was an evil expression on
his face; a mordant, bitter, savage expression, which Dallas did not
fail to remark. However, he took no notice of it, and the conversation
during dinner was confined to ordinary commonplaces.

Mr. Deane had not boasted without reason; the dinner was
excellent, the wines were choice and abundant, and with another
kind of companion George Dallas would have enjoyed himself. But
even in the discussion of the most ordinary topics there was a low
coarseness in Deane's conversation, a vulgar self-sufficiency and
delight at his own shrewdness, a miserable mistrust of every one,
and a general arrogance and conceit which were highly nettling and
repulsive. During dinner these amiable qualities displayed
themselves in Mr. Deane's communication with the waiter; it was not
until the cloth had been removed, and they were taking their first
glass of port, that Deane reverted to what had annoyed him before
they sat down.

"That Routh's what they call a mean cuss, t'other side the water,"
he commenced; "a mean cuss he is, and nothing else. Throwing me
over in this way at the last minute, and never sending word before,
so that I might have said we shall only be two instead of three, and
saved paying for him! He thinks he's cruel wide awake, he does; but
though he's been at it all his life, and it's not six months since I first
caught sight of this little village nominated London, I don't think
there's much he could put me up to now!"

He looked so expectant of a compliment, that Dallas felt bound to

say: "You certainly seem to have made the most of your time!"

"Made the most of my time! I reckon I have! Why, there's no

s'loon, oyster-cellar, dancing-shop, night-house of any name at all,
where I'm not regular well known. 'Here's the Yankee,' they say,
when I come in; not that I'm that, but I've told 'em I hail from the
U-nited States, and that's why they call me the Yankee. They know
me, and they know I pay my way as I go, and that I've got plenty of
money. Help yourself--good port this, ain't it?--ought to be, for they
charge eight shillings a bottle for it. Why people out t'other side the
water, sir, they think I'm staying in titled country-houses, and dining
in Portland-place, and going to hear oratorios. I've got letters of
introduction in my desk which would do all that, and more. Never
mind! I like to shake a loose leg, and, as I flatter myself I can pretty
well take care of myself, I shake it!"

"Yes," said Dallas, in a slightly bitter tone, with a vivid recollection

of his losses at cards to Deane; "yes, you can take care of yourself."

"Rather think so," repeated Deane, with a jarring laugh. "There

are two things which are guiding principles with me--number one,
never to lend a dollar to any man; number two, always to have the
full value of every dollar I spend. If you do that, you'll generally find
yourself not a loser in the end. We'll have another bottle of this
eight-shilling port. I've had the value of this dinner out of you,
recollect, so that I'm not straying from my principle. Here, waiter,
another bottle of this eight-shilling wine!"
 "You're a lucky fellow, Deane," said George Dallas, slowly finishing
his second glass of the fresh bottle; "you're a lucky fellow, to have
plenty of money and to be your own master, able to choose your
own company, and do as you like. I wish I had the chance!" As
Dallas spoke, he filled his glass again.

"Well, there are worse berths than mine in the ship, and that's a
fact!" said Deane calmly. "I've often thought about you, Dallas, I
have now, and I've often wondered when you'll be like the prodigal
son, and go home to your father, and succeed the old man in the
business."

"I have no father!"

"Hain't you though? But you've got some friends, I reckon, who
are not over-delighted at your campin' out with the wild Injuns
you're living among at present?"

"I have a mother."

"That's a step towards respectability. I suppose you'll go back to

the old lady some day, and be welcomed with open arms?"

"There's some one else to have a say in that matter. My mother is-
-is married again. I have a stepfather."

"Not generally a pleasant relation, but no reason why you

shouldn't help yourself to this eight-shilling wine. That's right; pass
the bottle. A stepfather, eh? And he and you have collided more than
once, I expect?"

"Have what?"

"Collided."

"Do you mean come into collision?"

 "Expect I do," said Deane calmly. "I'm forbidden the house. I'm
looked upon as a black sheep--a pest--a contamination."

"But the old gentleman wouldn't catch anything from you. They
don't take contamination easy, after fifty!"

"Oh, it's not for himself that Mr. Carruthers is anxious; he is

infection proof--he--What is the matter?"

"Matter? Nothing! What name did you say?"

"Carruthers--Capel Carruthers. County family down in Kent."

"Go ahead!" said Deane, tossing off his wine, refilling his glass,
and pushing the bottle to his companion; "and this old, gentleman is
not anxious about himself, you say; where is your bad influence
likely to fall, then?"

"On his niece, who lives with them."

"What's her name?"

"Clare. Clare Carruthers! Isn't it a pretty name?"

"It is so, sir! And this niece. What's she like, now?"

George Dallas tried to throw a knowing gleam into his eyes, which
the perpetual motion of the decanter had rendered somewhat
bleared and vacant, as he looked across at his companion, and said
with a half-laugh: "You seem to take a great interest in my family,
Deane?"

Not one whit discomposed, Philip Deane replied: "Study of

character as a citizen of the world, and a general desire to hear what
all gals are like. Is Miss Clare pretty?"

"I've only seen her once, and that not too clearly. But she struck
me as being lovely."
 "Lovely, eh? And the old man won't have you at any price? That's
awkward, that is!"

"Awkward!" said Dallas, in a thick voice, "it's more than awkward,

as he shall find! I'll be even with him--I'll--Hallo! What do you want,
intruding on gentlemen's conversation?"

"Beg pardon, sir," said the waiter, to whom this last remark was
addressed; "no offence, gentlemen, but going to shut up now! We
ain't a supper-'ouse, gentlemen, and it's going on for twelve o'clock."

Indeed, all the other tables were vacated, so Deane rose at once
and paid the bill which the waiter had laid before him. Dallas rose
too with a staggering step.

"Coat, sir," said the waiter, handing it to him; "other arm, sir,
please; gently does it, sir; that's it!" And with some little difficulty he
pulled the coat on: George Dallas cursing it, and the country tailor
who had made it, as he stood rocking uneasily on his heels and
glaring vacantly before him.

"Come along, old horse," said Deane; "you'll be fixed as firm as

Washington Capitol when we get into the air. Come along, and we'll
go and finish the night somewhere!"

So saying, he tucked his companion's arm firmly within his own,

and they sallied forth.

CHAPTER VI.

DELAY.
 George Dallas felt that his fortunes were in the ascendant, when
he arose on the morning following the dinner with Deane, and found
himself possessed of ten pounds, which he had been sufficiently
sober to win at billiards the previous night, and consequently in a
position to pay off his landlady, and turn his back upon the wretched
lodging, which her temper, tyranny, and meanness had made more
wretched. He lost no time in packing up the few articles he
possessed--mainly consisting of books and drawing-materials--and
these, together with his scanty wardrobe, he threw into a couple of
trunks, which he himself carried down the steep dark staircase and
deposited in a cab. The landlady stood at the door, in the gray
morning, and watched her late lodger, as he strode down the shabby
little street, followed by the luggage-laden cab. She watched him,
wondering. She wondered where he had got the money he had just
paid her. She wondered where he had got the money to pay an extra
week's rent, in default of a week's notice. When she had dunned him
yesterday, as rudely and mercilessly as usual, he had said nothing
indicative of an expectation of an immediate supply of money. He
had only said that he hoped to pay her soon. "Where did he get the
money?" the old woman thought, as she watched him. "I hope he
come by it honest. I wonder where he's going to. He did not tell the
cabman, leastways so as I could hear him. Ah! It ain't no business of
mine; I'll just turn the rooms out a bit, and put up the bill."

So Mrs. Gunther (for that was the lady's name) re-entered the
shabby house, and a great activity accompanied by perpetual
scolding pervaded it for some hours, during which the late tenant
was journeying down to Amherst.

George Dallas strictly observed the directions contained in his

mother's letter, and having started by an early train, reached
Amherst at noon. Rightly supposing that at such an hour it would be
useless to look for his mother in the little town, he crossed the
railroad in a direction leading away from Amherst, struck into some
fields, and wandered on by a rough footpath which led through a
copse of beech-trees to a round bare hill. He sat down when he had
reached this spot, from whence he could see the road to and from
Poynings. A turnpike was at a little distance, and he saw a carriage
stopped beside the gate, and a footman at the door receiving an
order from a lady, whose bonnet he could just discern in the
distance. He stood up and waited. The carriage approached, and he
saw that the liveries were those of Mr. Carruthers. Then he struck
away down the side of the little declivity, and crossing the railway at
another point, attained the main street of the little town. It was
market-day. He avoided the inn, and took up a position whence he
could watch his mother's approach. There were so many strangers
and what Mr. Deane would have called "loafers" about, some buying,
some selling, and many honestly and unfeignedly doing nothing, that
an idler more or less was certain to pass without any comment, and
it was not even necessary to keep very wide of the inn. He stood
with his hands in his pockets, looking into the window of the one
shop in Amherst devoted to the interests of literature, which was
profusely decorated with out-of-date valentines, much criticised by
flies, and with feebly embossed cards, setting forth the merits of
local governesses. At that time prophetic representations of the
International Exhibition of '62 were beginning to appeal to the
patriotic soul in light blue drawings, with flags innumerable displayed
wheresoever they could be put "handy." George Dallas calmly and
gravely surveyed the stock-in-trade, rather distracted by the process
of watching the inn door, between which and his position intervened
a group of farmers, who were to a man chewing bits of whipcord,
and examining samples of corn, which they extracted in a stealthy
manner from their breeches-pocket, and displayed grudgingly on
their broad palms. On the steps of the inn door were one or two
busy groups, and not a man or woman of the number took any
notice of Mrs. Carruthers's son. They took very considerable notice
of Mrs. Carruthers herself, however, when her carriage stopped; and
Mr. Page, the landlord, actually came out, quite in the old fashioned
style, to open the lady's carriage, and escort her into the house.
George watched his mother's tall and elegant figure, as long as she
was in sight, with mingled feelings of pleasure, affection, something
like real gratitude, and very real bitterness; then he turned, strolled
past the inn where the carriage was being put up, and took his way
down the main street, to the principal draper's shop, He went in,
asked for some gloves, and turned over the packets set before him
with slowness and indecision. Presently his mother entered, and
took the seat which the shopman, a mild person in spectacles,
handed her. She, too, asked for gloves, and, as the shopman turned
his back to the counter, rapidly passed a slip of paper to her son.
She had written on it, in pencil:

"At Davis's the dentist's, opposite, in ten minutes."

"These will do, thank you. I think you said three and sixpence?"
said George to the shopman, who, having placed a number of gloves
before Mrs. Carruthers for her selection, had now leisure to attend to
his less important customer.

"Yes, sir, three and sixpence, sir. One pair, sir? You'll find them
very good wear, sir."

"One pair will do, thank you," said George. He looked steadily at
his mother, as he passed her on his way to the door, and once more
anger arose, fierce and keen, in his heart--anger, not directed
against her, but against his stepfather. "Curse him!" he muttered, as
he crossed the street, "what right has he to treat me like a dog, and
her like a slave? Nothing that I have done justifies--no, by Heaven,
and nothing that I could do, would justify--such treatment."

Mr. Davis's house had the snug, cleanly, inflexible look peculiarly
noticeable even amid the general snugness, cleanliness, and
inflexibility of a country town, as attributes of the residences of
surgeons and dentists, and gentlemen who combine both those fine
arts. The clean servant who opened the door looked perfectly
cheerful and content. It is rather aggravating, when one is going to
be tortured, even for one's ultimate good, to be assured in a tone
almost of glee:

"No, sir, master's not in, sir; but he'll be in directly, sir. In the
waiting-room, sir." George Dallas not having come to be tortured,
and not wishing to see Mr. Davis, bore the announcement with good
humour equal to that of the servant, and sat down very contentedly
on a high, hard, horsehair chair, to await events. Fortune again
favoured him; the room had no other occupant; and in about five
minutes he again heard the cheerful voice of the beaming girl at the
door say,

"No, m'm, master's not in; but he'll be in d'rectly, m'm. In the
waiting-room, m'm. There's one gentleman a-waitin', m'm, but
master will attend on you first, of course, m'm."

The next moment his mother was in the room, her face shining on
him, her arms round him, and the kind words of the truest friend
any human being can be to another, poured into his ears.

"You are looking much better, George," she said, holding him back
from her, and gazing fondly into his face. "You are looking brighter,
my darling, and softer, and as if you were trying to keep your word
to me."

"Pretty well, mother, and I am very thankful to you. But your letter
puzzled me. What does it mean? Have you really got the money, and
how did you manage to get it?"

"I have not got it, dear," she said quickly, and holding up her hand
to keep him silent; "but it is only a short delay, not a
disappointment. I shall have it in two or three days."

George's countenance had fallen at her first words, but the

remainder of the sentence reassured him, and he listened eagerly as
she continued:
 "I am quite sure of getting it, George. If it does but set you free, I
shall not regret the price I have paid for it."

"Tell me what it is mother," George asked eagerly. "Stay, you must

not sit so close to me."

"I'm not sure that your voice ought to be heard either, speaking so
familiarly, tête-à-tête with the important Mrs. Carruthers of
Poynings--a personage whose sayings and doings are things of note
at Amherst," said Mrs. Carruthers with a smile, as he took a seat at
a little distance, and placed one of the samples of periodical
literature strewn about the table, after the fashion of dentists' and
surgeons' waiting-rooms, ready to her hand, in case of interruption.
Then she laid her clasped hands on the table, and leaned against
them, with her clear dark eyes fixed upon her son's face, and her
steady voice, still sweet and pure in its tones as in her youth, as she
told him what she had done.

"Do you remember, George, that on that wretched night you

spoke of my diamonds, and seemed to reproach me that I should
wear jewels, while you wanted so urgently but a small portion of
their price?"

"I remember, mother," returned George, frowning, "and a beast I

was to hint such a thing to you, who gave me all that ever was your
own! I hoped you had forgiven and forgotten it. Can it be possible
that you have sold--But no; you said they were family jewels."

"I will tell you. When you had gone away that night, and I was in
the ball-room, and later, when I was in my dressing-room alone, and
could think of it all again, the remembrance of what you had said
tormented me. The jewels you had seen me wearing were, indeed,
as I had told you, not my own; nevertheless, the remembrance of all
I had ever read about converting jewels into money occupied my
mind that night, and occupied it after that night for days and days.
One day Mr. Tatham came to Poynings, and in the evening being, as
he always is, very entertaining, he related an extraordinary story of
a client of his. The tale, as he told it, had many particulars, but one
caught my attention. The client was a woman of large fortune, who
married for love a man much younger than herself, a dissipated
fellow who broke her fortune, and might have broken her heart, but
for his getting killed in riding a steeple-chase. After his timely death
it was discovered, among a variety of dishonourable transactions,
that he had stolen his wife's diamonds, with the connivance of her
maid; had had them imitated in mock stones by a famous French
dealer in false jewelry; and had substituted the false for the real. No
suspicion of the fact had ever crossed his wife's mind. The discovery
was made by the jeweller's bill for the imitation being found among
the papers. This led to inquiry of the dealer, who gave the required
information. The moment I heard the story, I conceived the idea of
getting you the money you wanted by a similar expedient."

"Oh, mother!"

She lifted one hand with a gesture of caution, and continued, in a

voice still lower than before:

"My jewels--at least those I have sold--were my own, George.

Those I wore that night were, as I told you, family diamonds; but
Mr. Carruthers gave me, when we were married, a diamond bracelet,
and I understood then that it was very valuable. I shrank from such
a deception. But it was for you, and I caught at it."

George Dallas sat with his hands over his face and no more
interrupted her by a single word.

"By one or two questions I stimulated Mr. Carruthers's curiosity in

the strange story, so that he asked Mr. Tatham several questions as
to where the mock jewels were made, whether they cost much, and,
in fact, procured for me all the information I required. That bracelet
was the only thing I had of sufficient value for the purpose, because
it is expensive to get an imitation of any ornament made of very fine
stones, as my bracelet is, and richly set. If the act were still to do, I
should do it, George--for you--and still I should feel, as I do most
bitterly feel, that in doing it I shamefully deceive my husband!"

Still George Dallas did not speak. He felt keenly the degradation to
which he had reduced his mother; but so great and pervading was
his bitterness of feeling towards his mother's husband, that when
the wrong to him presented itself to his consideration, he would not
entertain it. He turned away, rose, and paced the room. His mother
sighed heavily as she went on.

"George, you know this is not the first time I have suffered
through and for you, and that this is the first time I have ever done
an act which I dare not avow. I will say no more."

He was passing behind her chair as she spoke, and he paused in

his restless walk to kneel down by her, clasp her in his arms, and
kiss her. As he rose from his knees, she looked at him with a face
made radiant with hope, and with a mother's love.

"This is how it was done, George," she continued. "I wrote to an

old friend of mine in Paris, a French lady, once my schoolfellow. I
told her I wanted my bracelet matched, in the best manner of
imitation jewelry, as our English fashions required two, and I could
not afford to purchase another made of real diamonds. I urged the
strictest secrecy, and I know she will observe it; for she loves
mystery only a little less than she loves dress. She undertook the
commission with alacrity, and I expected to have had both the
bracelets yesterday!"

"What a risk you would have run, mother, supposing an occasion

for your wearing the bracelet had arisen!"

"Like Anne of Austria and the studs?" said his mother with a smile.
"But there was no help for it. More deceit and falsehood must have
followed the first. If the occasion had arisen, Mr. Carruthers would
have questioned me, and I should have said I had sent it to be
cleaned, when he would have been angry that I should have done
so without consulting him."

"Tyrannical old brute!" was George's mental comment.

"All the meanness and all the falsehood was planned and ready,
George; but it was needless. Mr. Carruthers was summoned to York,
and is still there. It is much for me that the parcel should arrive
during his absence. I heard from my friend the day before I wrote to
you, that she was about to send it immediately, and I wrote to you
at once. It is to be directed to Nurse Brookes."

"How did you explain that, mother!" George asked quickly.

"More lies, more lies," she answered sadly, rejoicing in her heart
the while to see how he writhed under the words. "I told her what
was needful in the way of false explanation, and I made certain of
having the bracelets to-day. So I must have done but for a second
letter from my friend Madame de Haulleville, to the effect that,
having a sudden opportunity of sending the packet to England by a
private hand, she had availed herself of it, at the loss of (at most,
she writes) a day or two."

"Confound her French parsimony!" said George; "think of the

unnecessary risk she makes us run, when I come down here for
nothing."

"It is not so much parsimony as precaution, George. And she

could know nothing of any risk."

"What is to be done, then?" he asked, in a softer tone.

"Can you not remain at Amherst?" asked his mother. "Have you
anything to do which will prevent your remaining here for a day or
two? If not you will be as well here as in London, for there is no
danger of Mr. Carruthers seeing you."
 "Suppose he did?" George burst out. "Is he the lord and master of
all England, including Amherst? Perhaps the sunshine belongs to
him, and the fresh air? If I keep away from Poynings, that's enough
for him, surely."

Mrs. Carruthers had risen, and looked appealingly at him.

"Remember, George, your misconduct would justify Mr. Carruthers

in the eyes of the world, for the course he has taken towards you;
or," here she moved near to him, and laid her hand on his arm, "if
you refuse to consider that, remember that Mr. Carruthers is my
husband, and that I love him."

"I will, mother, I will," said George impetuously. "Graceless,

ungrateful wretch that I am! I will never say another word against
him. I will remain quietly here as you suggest. Shall I stay at the
inn? Not under my own name; under my not very well known but
some day of course widely to be famous pen-name--Paul Ward.
Don't forget it, mother, write it down; stay, I'll write it for you. P-a-u-
l W-a-r-d." He wrote the name slowly on a slip of paper, which Mrs.
Carruthers placed between the leaves of her pocket-book.

"You must go now," she said to him; "it is impossible you can wait
here longer. We have been singularly fortunate as it is. When I write,
I will tellyou whether I can come to you here--in the town, I mean--
or whether you shall come to me. I think you will have to come to
me. Now go, my darling boy." She embraced him fondly.

"And you, mother?"

"I will remain here a little longer. I have really something to say to
Mr. Davis."

He went. Black care went with him, and shame and remorse were
busy at his heart. Would remorse deepen into repentance, and
would repentance bear wholesome fruit of reformation? That was for
the future to unravel. The present had acute stinging pain in it,
which he longed to stifle, to crush out, to get away from, anyhow.
He loved his mother, and her beautiful earnest face went with him
along the dusty road; the unshed tears in her clear dark eyes
seemed to drop in burning rain upon his heart; the pleading tones of
her sorrowful voice filled all the air. How wicked and wretched, how
vain, silly, and insipid, how worthless and vulgar, all his pleasures
and pursuits seemed now! A new spirit arose in the wayworn, jaded
man; a fresh ambition sprang up in his heart. "It's a wretched, low,
mean way of getting free, but I have left myself no choice. I must
take advantage of what she has done for me, and then I never will
wrong her love and generosity again. I will do right, and not wrong;
this is my resolution, and I will work it out, so help me God!"

He had unconsciously come to a stop at the noble old oak gates,

flung hospitably open, of a wide-spreading park, through one of
whose vistas a grand old mansion in the most elaborate manner of
the Elizabethan style was visible. He looked up, and the beauty of
the prospect struck him as if it had been created by an enchanter's
wand. He looked back along the road by which he had come, and
found that he had completely lost sight of Amherst.

He went a pace or two beyond the gate pillars. A hale old man
was employed in nailing up a trailing branch of jessamine against the
porch of the lodge.

"Good afternoon, old gentleman. This is a fine place, I fancy."

"Good afternoon, sir. It is a fine place. You'll not see many finer in
Amherst. Would you like to walk through it, sir? You're quite
welcome."

"Thank you. I should like to walk through it. I have never been
down this way before. What is the name of this place, and to whom
does it belong?"

"It is called the Sycamores, sir, and it belongs to Sir Thomas

Boldero."
 CHAPTER VII.

AMONG THE BEECHES.

A fine avenue of beech-trees led from the gate through which

George Dallas had passed, to the house which had attracted his
admiration. These grandest and most beautiful of trees were not,
however, the distinguishing feature of the place: not its chief pride.
"The Sycamores" was so called in honour of a profusion of trees of
that kind, said in the neighbourhood to have no rivals in all England.
Be that as it might, the woodland scenery in Sir Thomas Boldero's
noble park was beautiful in the highest degree, and of such beauty
George Dallas was keenly and artistically appreciative. The tender
loveliness of the spring was abroad throughout the land; its voices,
its gladness, its perfumes, were around him everywhere, and as the
young man strolled on under the shadow of the great branches,
bearing their tender burden of bright, soft, green, half-unclosed
buds, the weight and blackness of care seemed to be lifted off him,
and his heart opened to fresh, pure, simple aspirations, long
strangers to his jaded but not wholly vitiated character. He was very
young, and the blessed influence of youth told upon him, its power
of receiving impressions, its faculty of enjoyment, its susceptibility to
external things--a blessing or a curse as it is used--its buoyancy, its
hopefulness. As George Dallas turned from the broad smooth
carriage-way, and went wandering over the green elastic turf of the
carefully kept park, winding in and out through the boles of the
grand old trees, treading now on a tender twig, again on a wild
flower, now startling from her nest a brooding lark, anon stopping to
listen to a burst of melody from some songster free from domestic
cares, he was hardly recognizable as the man who had sat listening
to Philip Deane's hard worldly talk at the Strand tavern the day
before.

"Brighter and softer" his mother had said he was looking, and it
was true. Brighter and softer still the hard, pleasure-wearied, joyless
face became, as the minutes stole over him, among the sycamores
and beeches. He had pursued his desultory path a mile or more, and
had lost sight of the house and the avenue, when he came to a
beautiful open glade, carpeted with turf of the softest green, and
over-arched by forest trees. Looking down its long vista, he saw that
it terminated with a brilliant flower-garden, and a portion of a noble
stone terrace, lying beneath one side of the many-turreted house.
He stood entranced by the beauty of the scene, and, after a few
moments, felt in his pocket for pencil and paper, in order to sketch
it. He found both, and looking round him, saw a piece of the trunk of
a felled tree, not yet removed by the care of the forester.

"A capital place to sketch from," thought George, as he folded his

coat, and laid it upon the convenient block, and immediately became
absorbed in his occupation. He was proceeding rapidly with his
sketch, and feeling rather disposed to get it finished as quickly as he
could, in order that he might return to the inn and procure some
food, of which he stood in considerable need, when he caught the
sound of galloping upon the turf in the distance behind him. He
raised his head and listened; there it was, the dull rapid thud of
hoofs on the grass. Was there one rider, or were there more? He
listened again--only one, he thought; and now the rapid noise
ceased, and was succeeded by the slow, pattering sound of a horse
ridden daintily and gently about and about, by a capricious fancy.
Still George listened, and presently there came riding out of the
shadowy distance into the full expanse of the glade, down which the
declining sun sent golden rays, as if in salutation, a lady, who was,
as his first glance showed him, young and beautiful. She was quite
unconscious of his presence, for the piece of timber on which he had
been sitting was out of the line of sight, and though he had risen, he
was still standing beside it. She came towards him, her slight form
swaying to the movements of her bright bay thorough-bred, as she
put the animal through all sorts of fanciful paces, now checking him
with the rein, now encouraging him with her clear sweet young
voice, and patting his arched neck with her white-gloved hand. The
young man looked out from his hiding-place, enraptured, as she
came on, a vision of youth, beauty, and refinement, down the wide
green glade, the sun shining on her, the birds singing, the flowers
blooming for her, the proud walls of the old house rising grandly in
the back-ground, as if in boast of the worthy shelter that awaited
her. Nearer and nearer she came, and now George Dallas could see
her face distinctly, and could hear the pretty words with which she
coaxed her horse. It was a face to remember; a face to be the
happier for having seen; a face whose beauty was blended of form
and colour, of soul, feature, and expression; a face which had all
that the earth has to give of its best and fairest, touched with the
glory which is higher and better, which earth has not to bestow. It
was the face of a girl of nineteen, whose clear eyes were of golden
brown, whose cheeks bloomed with the purest, most varying flower-
like colour, whose rich golden hair shone in the sunlight, as its braids
rippled and turned about with the movement of her head, tossed
childishly to the rhythmical measure of her horse's tread.

Half a dozen trees only intervened between her and the spot
where George Dallas stood, greedily watching her every movement
and glance, when she took her hat off, and pushed the heavy golden
hair off her broad white forehead. At that moment her horse jerked
the rein she held loosely, and pulled her slightly forward, the hat
falling from her hand on the grass.

"Now see what you have done," she said, with a gay laugh, as the
animal stood still and looked foolish. "I declare I'll make you pick it
up with your mouth. There, sir, turn, I tell you; come, you know
how." And she put the horse through all the pretty tricks of stooping
and half kneeling, in which she evidently felt much more pleasure
than he did. But she did not succeed: he obeyed touch and word
readily; but he did not pick up the hat. At last she desisted, and said
with a funny look of mock patience:

"Very well, Sir Lancelot, if you won't you won't, so I must get off."
She had just gathered her skirt in her hand, and was about to spring
from her saddle, when George Dallas stepped out from among the
trees, picked up the hat, and handed it to her, with a bow.

The young lady looked at him in astonishment, but she thanked

him with self-possession, which he was far from sharing, and put her
hat on, while Sir Lancelot pawed impatiently.

"Thank you," she said; "I did not see any one near."

"I was sitting yonder," said George, pointing to the spot whence
he had emerged, "on some fallen timber, and was just taking the
liberty of sketching the view of the house, when you rode up."

She coloured, looked pleased and interested, and said,

hesitatingly, having bidden Sir Lancelot "stand:" "You are an artist,
sir?"

"No," he answered, "at least, only in a very small way; but this is
such a beautiful place, I was tempted to make a little sketch. But I
fear I am intruding; perhaps strangers are not admitted."

"Oh yes, they are," she replied hurriedly. "We have not many
strangers in this neighbourhood; but they are all welcome to come
into the park, if they like. Had you finished your sketch?" she asked
timidly, with a look towards the sheet of paper, which had fallen
when Dallas rose, and had been fluttered into sight by the gentle
wind. George saw the look, and caught eagerly at any pretext for
prolonging the interview a few moments.

"May I venture to show you my poor attempt?" he asked, and

without awaiting her answer, he stepped quickly back to the place he
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