What a brilliant little fellow he is;
just like his brother."
"Just like what his brother _was_," said Owen; "his face, like his
mind, has suffered lately."
"Too true," answered Montagu, with a sigh; "and yet, cool as we now are
in our outward intercourse, he little knows how I love him, and yearn
for the Eric I once knew. Would to God poor Russell had lived, and then
I believe that Williams wouldn't have gone so for wrong."
"Well, I think there's another chance for him now that--that--what name
is bad enough, for that Brigson?--is gone."
"I hope so. But"--he added after a pause--"his works do follow him. Look
there!" He took a large stone and threw it into the Silverburn stream;
there was a great splash, and then ever-widening circles of blue ripple
broke the surface of the water, dying away one by one in the sedges on
the bank. "There," he said, "see how long those ripples last, and how
numerous they are."
Owen understood him. "Poor Williams! What a gleam of new hope there was
in him after Russell's death!"
"Yes, for a time," said Montagu; "heigh ho! I fear we shall never be
warm friends again.
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