Amos Huntingdon

By Reverend T. P. Wilson________________________________________________________________________This a very well written and interesting story, well up to Wilson'sbest. It deals with the various moral issues that beset a ratherwell-off family. The old father makes his two sons an allowance, whichone of them, Amos, manages well, while the other does not. Stability inthe family is provided by an old maiden aunt, Kate, the sister of theold man. There was also a daughter, Julia, who had married ane'er-do-well, and who had been shown the door on that account by theold father, but who was still of great concern to the two young men, particularly to Amos, as she had small children, who were so destitutethat Amos was spending all his allowance in looking after his sister andher children, thus making it impossible for him to lend his brother anymoney. 

Because there are not many people in the story, and because theircharacters are so well-described, the reader is drawn into the family, and follows their concerns with interest. It makes a good audiobook ofabout eleven hours duration. NH________________________________________________________________________

AMOS HUNTINGDON

BY REVEREND T. P. WILSON

CHAPTER ONE. 

BRAVELY DONE. 

"Help! help! holloa there! Master Walter--Mr Amos--Jim--Harry--quick--bring us a light!--lend a hand here!" Such were the words whichsuddenly broke the stillness of a dark October night, and roused up thehousehold of Mr Walter Huntingdon, a country gentleman living on hisown estate in Derbyshire. The voice was the coachman's, and cameapparently from somewhere near the drive-gate, which was about a coupleof hundred yards from the front door of the house. The evening had beendark and stormy; and it was in a lull of the tempest that the ominoussounds of distress reached the ears of the inmates of Flixworth Manor. 

In a few moments all was bustle and excitement--lights flashing; feethurrying; voices shouting; and then a rush for the scene of danger andtrouble. 

Outside the grounds in which the Manor-house stood were extensive grasslands on either side of the public road. In the field nearest to thedrive-gate, and on the left as you entered it, was a deep andprecipitous chalk-pit, now disused. This pit was some little distancefrom the road itself, and was not noticeable by persons unacquaintedwith the locality. It had been there no one knew how long, and was afavourite resort of adventurous children, a footpath to the villagepassing not far from its edge. Towards this chalk-pit the startledparty of rescue from the house hurried with one consent, several of themcarrying lanterns or extemporised torches. 

Ten o'clock was striking in the distant church-tower as they gatheredround the spot from which the cries for help had proceeded. A terriblesight was dimly revealed to them in the uncertain glare cast upon it bythe lights which they carried. Hanging over the edge of the chalk-pitwas the squire's carriage. One horse had broken away from the traces, but the other was struggling violently, and seemed likely, in itsplungings, to force the carriage still further over the precipitous sideof the pit. The coachman, who had managed to spring unharmed from thebox, was doing his best to restrain the violence of the terrifiedanimal, but with only partial success; while the situation of MrHuntingdon himself and of his maiden sister, who were inside thecarriage, was perilous and distressing in the extreme. 

The accident had been caused by a strange and savage dog suddenlyspringing at the horses' heads as the carriage was nearing the outergate. The night was very dark, and the horses, which were young andfull of spirit, being startled by the unexpected attack of the dog, which belonged to some passing traveller, sprang violently out of theroad, and, easily crashing through the wooden fence, which happened tobe unusually weak just at that part, carried the carriage along withthem to the very edge of the chalk-pit, spite of all the efforts of thecoachman to hold them in; so that when the people of the Manor-housecame to the rescue, they found the carriage and its occupants in a mostcritical position. 

Not a moment was to be lost. Jim, the stable-boy, was quickly by theside of the coachman, who was almost exhausted with his efforts to curbthe terrified horse, the animal becoming still more excited by the flareof the lights and the rush of the newcomers. 

"Cut the traces, man! cut the traces!" cried Harry the butler, as hegained the spot. 

"Do nothing of the sort, " said a voice close by him. "Don't you seethat there may be nothing to hold the carriage up, if you cut thetraces? it may fall sheer over into the chalk-pit. --Steady, Beauty!steady, poor Beauty!" These last words came from a young man whoevidently had authority over the servants, and spoke calmly but firmly, at the same time patting and soothing the terror-stricken animal, which, though still trembling in every limb, had ceased its frantic plungings. 

"William, " continued the same speaker, addressing the coachman, "keepher still, if you can, till we have got my father and aunt out. "

Just at that moment a boy of about seventeen years of age sprang on tothe front wheel, which was a little tilted on one side, and with aviolent wrench opened the carriage-door. "Father, dear father, " hecried, "are you there? are you hurt?"

For a moment no reply was made; then in a stifled voice came the words, "Save your aunt, my dear boy, save your aunt!"

Miss Huntingdon, who was nearest the door, and had contrived to cling toa stout strap at the side of it, was now dragged with difficulty, by thejoint efforts of her nephew and the butler, out on to the firm ground. Walter, her young deliverer, then sprang back to extricate his father. "Give me your hand, father, " he cried, as he stooped down into thecarriage, which was now creaking and swaying rather ominously. "A lighthere, Harry--Jim!" he continued. It was plain that there was no timefor delay, as the vehicle seemed to be settling down more and more inthe direction of the chasm over which it hung. A light was quicklybrought, and Mr Huntingdon was released at last from his trying andpainful durance; but not without considerable difficulty, as he had beenmuch bruised, and almost stunned, by being dashed against the undermostdoor, and by his poor sister having been thrown violently on him, whenthe carriage had turned suddenly on its side. 

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" shouted Walter, springing on to the hind wheel;"`all's well that ends well. ' No bones broken I hope, dear father, dearaunt. "

"Have a care, Master Walter, " cried the coachman, who had now managed, with the elder son's help, to release the frightened horse from thetraces, and had given it in charge to the stable-boy, --"have a care, oryou'll be over into the chalk-pit, carriage and all. "

"All right, William, " cried the boy; "you look after Beauty, and I'lllook after myself. " So saying, he jumped down, making the carriage rockas he sprang to the ground. 

And now, while Miss Huntingdon, who had suffered nothing more seriousthan a severe shaking, was being led to the house by her elder nephewand the female servants who had joined the rescuing party, MrHuntingdon, having made a careful inspection of the position of hiscarriage, found that it was in no danger of falling to the bottom of thechalk-pit, as a stout tree, which sprang from the side of the pit, closeto the top, had become entangled in the undermost hind wheel, and wouldform a sufficient support till the proper means of drawing the vehiclefully on to the level ground could be used on the morrow. All partiesthen betook themselves slowly to the Manor-house. 

In the kitchen, William the coachman was, of course, the great centre ofattraction to a large gathering of domestics, and of neighbours also, who soon came flocking in, spite of the lateness of the hour, to get anauthentic version of the accident, which, snowball-like, would, ere noonnext day, get rolled up into gigantic proportions, as it made its waythrough many mouths to the farther end of the parish. 

In the drawing-room of the Manor-house a sympathising group gatheredround Mr Huntingdon and his sister, eager to know if either wereseriously the worse for the alarming termination to their journey. Happily, both had escaped without damage of any consequence, so thatbefore they retired to rest they were able, as they drew round thecheery fire, and heard the stormy wind raging without, to talk over theperilous adventure with mutual congratulations at its happy termination, and with thankfulness that the travellers were under the shelter of theManor roof, instead of being exposed to the rough blasts of the storm, as they might still have been had the mishap occurred further from home. "Walter, my boy, " exclaimed Mr Huntingdon, stretching out his hand tohis younger son, "it was bravely done. If it had not been for you, wemight have been hanging over the mouth of the chalk-pit yet--or, perhaps, been down at the bottom. You are a lad after your father's ownheart, --good old-fashioned English pluck and courage; there's nothing Iadmire so much. " As he said these words, his eye glanced for a momentat his eldest son Amos, who was standing at the outside of the group, asthough he felt that the older brother had no claim on his regard on thescore of courage. The young man coloured slightly, but made no remark. He might, had he so pleased, have put in his claim for loving notice, onthe ground of presence of mind in stilling the plunging horse, --presenceof mind, which commonly contributes more to success and deliverance inan emergency than impulsive and impetuous courage; but he was not one toassert himself, and the coachman and stable-boy, who knew the part hehad taken, were not present to speak a word for him. So his youngerbrother Walter got the praise, and was looked upon as the hero of theadventure. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

UNDER A CLOUD. 

Mr Huntingdon was a country gentleman of good fortune and popularmanners, warm in his temper, hasty in his speech, upright in histransactions, and liberal in his dealings. No man could make a betterspeech, when he had those to address who substantially agreed with him;while in ordinary conversation he generally succeeded in silencing anopponent, though, perhaps, more by the vehemence of his utterances thanby the cogency of his reasonings. He had a considerable knowledge offield-sports and farming, rather less of literature, and less still ofcharacter. Naturally, he had a high opinion of his own judgment, inwhich opinion his dependants agreed with him before his face, butdiffered from it behind his back. However, every one allowed that hewas a worthy man, a good landlord, a kind master, and a faithful friend. A cloud, however, rested on his home. 

He had married early, and had made, in the estimation of his friends andof the county generally, an excellent choice of a wife in the person ofthe eldest daughter of a neighbouring squire. The marriage wasapparently a very happy one; for the bride brought her husband a fairface, a loving heart, and a good fortune, and entertained his friendswith due courtesy and cordiality. Moreover, she neither thwarted histastes nor squandered his money; while he, on his part, pursued hishunting, shooting, and fishing, and his occasional magisterial duties, with due consideration for his wife's domestic and social engagements, so that their married life ran its course with as little friction orcreaking as could reasonably be expected. Then there came, in due time, the children: first, a little girl, the object of her mother'spassionate love, and as dear to her father as the mistake of her nothaving been a boy would allow her to be; then, after an interval ofthree years, came a son. 

Now it so happened that at the time of this son's birth there wasresiding as a guest at the Manor-house a middle-aged gentleman reputedto be very rich. His name was Amos Sutterby. Mr Huntingdon had methim abroad in the second year after his marriage when taking a tour inSwitzerland with his wife. Mr Sutterby was an old bachelor, ratherbluff in his manners, but evidently in easy circumstances. TheHuntingdons and himself had met on the Rigi, and the squire had taken tohim at once--in a great measure, it may be, because Mr Amos was a goodlistener, and was very ready to ask Mr Huntingdon's opinion and advice. So the squire gave his new acquaintance a general invitation toFlixworth Manor, which the other cordially accepted: and in a littlewhile this acquaintanceship ripened into a steady friendship, though byno means entirely to the satisfaction of Mrs Huntingdon. The result, however, was that Mr Sutterby spent several weeks of every year, at theclose of the summer and beginning of the autumn, at the Manor, and wasthe constant companion of the squire in his field-sports. MrHuntingdon had taken care to satisfy himself that his new friend, thoughsomewhat of an oddity, was a man of substance. True, he was only livingin bachelor style, and possessed no landed property; but then he wasable at all times to command ready money, and was reputed by persons whohad long known him to be the holder of a large amount in the funds, animpression which seemed to be justified by some elegant and costlypresents of which Mr Sutterby begged his friend's acceptance, as atoken of his esteem and a mark of his appreciation of that kindhospitality which, as he said, an eccentric old bachelor living inlodgings in London was unable to return in kind. 

Now it was, as has been said, during a visit of Mr Sutterby toFlixworth Manor that a son and heir was given to the Huntingdons. Ofcourse there were great rejoicings, and no one seemed more glad than MrSutterby; and when he was asked if he would stand godfather to thechild, he declared that nothing could please him more. So thechristening day was fixed, and now the question of a name for the childwas discussed, as father, mother, and their guest were sitting round thefire after dinner on the first day of Mrs Huntingdon's appearingdownstairs. 

"Of course he must be `Walter, ' after yourself, " said the lady. 

"Unless you would like to call him `Amos, ' after his godfather, " saidthe squire, laughing. 

"Capital!" exclaimed Mr Sutterby, with a roar of merriment. "In thatcase, of course, I shall feel it nothing less than my duty to make himmy heir. "

Now these words of their guest, though spoken just on the spur of themoment, and probably only in jest, made an impression on the mind of MrHuntingdon which he could not get rid of. Why should not his friendhave really meant what he said? He was rich, and an old bachelor, andhad no near relations, so far as the squire knew; and though MrHuntingdon's estate and fortune were large, yet his open-house way ofliving left him little to spare at the year's end, so that MrSutterby's money would be very acceptable, should he see fit to leave itto his godson. He therefore represented this view of the matter to hiswife in private; but she would not hear of such a name as Amos beinggiven to her son. 

"Better lose a thousand fortunes, and quarrel with every friend they hador might have, rather than bring such an odious combination as `AmosHuntingdon' into the family genealogy. " The squire's temper, however, was roused by this opposition, and he wound up the only sharpaltercation which had occurred between himself and his wife since theirmarriage by a vehement asseveration that "Amos" and nothing but "Amos"should be the Christian name of his first-born son. 

Sorely against her will, his wife was obliged to yield; for though MrHuntingdon had his own secret regrets that he had gone so far, yet hewas one of those who, wanting that true greatness of character whichleads its possessor to change a hastily adopted decision for oneresulting from a maturer judgment, abide by what they have said simplybecause they have said it, and thus mistake obstinacy for a right-mindedfirmness. "Amos, " therefore, was the name given, considerably to thesatisfaction of Mr Sutterby, who made his godson handsome presents fromtime to time, and often spoke of him playfully as "my godson and heir. "His mother, however, never forgave his name, and it was clear to allthat the poor child himself had but a cold place in that mother's heart. 

What wonder, then, that the boy grew up shy and reserved, dreading thesound of his own name, and shrinking within himself; for seldom was hegladdened by a father's or mother's smile. Added to this, he was notnaturally of a lively temperament, and so never exhibited thoseboisterous spirits which might have won for him in a measure hisfather's heart. So he was brought up with all due care, as was suitablefor an eldest son, and was sent to a public school as soon as he couldbe safely trusted from home. Indeed, all his wants were supplied butone, and that one was what his heart craved with a painful intensity--love. They gave him no real love, at least none that came like sunshineto his spirit. Such love as they did measure out to him was rather likethe feeble sunlight on a cloudy winter day, that seems to chill as itscarcely struggles through the mists that almost quench it. 

Such was Amos Huntingdon in his early childhood. But the cloud grewdarker over him when he had reached the age of ten. It was then thatthe news came one morning that Mr Sutterby had died, leaving no will, for indeed he had nothing to bequeath except a few small personaleffects, which went to some distant cousin. The fact was that, havingan eye to his own personal comfort and well-doing, he had sunk a nicelittle fortune, which he had inherited from a maiden aunt, in a handsomeannuity. Thus he was able to travel and spend his money like a man ofwealth, and was very glad of the opportunity of making Mr Huntingdon'sacquaintance, which gave him access to a house where he could spend aportion of every year amidst bountiful hospitality and in good society. He had no deliberate intention of deceiving Mr Huntingdon about hisson, but having once given him the impression that he would leave thatson a fortune, he did not trouble himself to undeceive his friend on thesubject; but being a man in whom self-interest spoke with a louder voicethan conscience, he was not sorry to find the conviction strongly rootedin the squire's mind that Amos was to be his godfather's heir, as thisconviction evidently added to the warmth of the welcome with which hewas received at the Manor-house whenever he chose to take up hisquarters there. And as he had always carefully avoided making anydefinite statement of his intentions, and had only thrown out hints fromtime to time, which might be either serious or playful, he was contentthat a state of things should continue which brought considerablesatisfaction to himself, and could not deprive the squire or his son ofanything to which either had a legal claim. The disgust, however, ofMr Huntingdon, when he found out how he had, as he considered it, beentaken advantage of and imposed upon, was intense in the extreme. No onedared refer to Mr Sutterby in his presence, while the very name of thepoor boy Amos was scarcely ever spoken by him except in a tone ofbitterness; and even his mother looked forward to his holidays with moreof apprehension than rejoicing. 

There was one, however, who felt for that desolate-hearted child, andloved him with a mother's tenderness. This was his aunt, MissHuntingdon, his father's unmarried and only sister. Half his holidayswould be spent at her house; and oh, what happy days they were for him!Happy, too, at last in the brightest and fullest sense; for that lovingfriend was privileged to lead her nephew gently to Him who says to theshy schoolboy, as much as to the mature man, in his sorrows, "Come untome, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. "

In the meanwhile, when Amos was five years old, another son was born atFlixworth Manor. The baby was christened Walter, and nearly all thelove that was the share of the elder brother was poured by both fatherand mother on the younger son. Years rolled on, and when our storyopens Amos was twenty-two years of age. He had passed creditablythrough the university course at Oxford, but had not settled down to anyprofession. Walter was seventeen; his father's delight and constantcompanion in his holidays; full of life, energy, and fun, with anunlimited good opinion of himself, and a very limited good opinion ofhis brother; while all around who knew him only a little were loud inhis praises, which were not, however, echoed by those who knew him morethoroughly. At present he was remaining at home, after completing hisschool education, neither his father nor himself being able to make uptheir minds as to the sphere in which his abilities would shine thebest. 

And where was his sister, the eldest of the three, who was now twenty-five years of age? Alas! she had grievously disappointed the hopes ofboth father and mother, having clandestinely married, when not yetarrived at womanhood, a man altogether beneath her in position. Fromthe day of that marriage Mr Huntingdon's heart and house were closedagainst her. Not so the heart of her mother; but that mother pleadedwith her husband in vain for a reconciliation, for permission even tohave a single meeting with her erring child. And so the poor mother'smind came under partial eclipse, and herself had been some years awayfrom home under private superintendence, when the accident aboverecorded occurred to her husband and his sister. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

A TALK AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The morning after the accident, Miss Huntingdon, who was now keeping herbrother's house, and had been returning with him the night before aftera visit to a friend, appeared as usual at the breakfast-table, rather toMr Huntingdon's surprise. 

"My dear Kate, " he said, "I hardly expected to see you at breakfast, after your fright, and shaking, and bruising. Most ladies would havespent the morning in bed; but I am delighted to see you, and take it forgranted that you are not seriously the worse for the mishap. "

"Thank you, dear Walter, " was her reply; "I cannot say that I feel verybrilliant this morning, but I thought it would be kinder in me to showmyself, and so relieve you from all anxiety, as I have been mercifullypreserved from anything worse than a severe shaking, the effects ofwhich will wear off in a day or two, I have no doubt. "

"Well, Kate, I must say it's just like yourself, never thinking of yourown feelings when you can save other people's. Why, you are almost asbrave as our hero Walter, who risked his own neck to get us out of ourtrouble last night. --Ah! here he comes, and Amos after him. Well, that's perhaps as it should be--honour to whom honour is due. "

A cloud rested on Miss Huntingdon's face as she heard these last words, and it was deepened as she observed a smile of evident exultation on thecountenance of her younger nephew, as he glanced at the flushed face ofhis elder brother. But now all seated themselves at the table, and theprevious evening's disaster was the all-absorbing topic of conversation. 

"Well, " said the squire, "things might have been worse, no doubt, thoughit may be some time before the horses will get over their fright, andthe carriage must go to the coachmaker's at once. --By-the-by, Harry, "speaking to the butler, who was waiting at table, "just tell James, whenyou have cleared away breakfast, to see to that fence at once. It mustbe made a good substantial job of, or we shall have broken bones, andbroken necks too, perhaps, one of these days. "

"I hope, Walter, " said his sister, "the horses were not seriouslyinjured. "

"No, I think not, " was his reply; "nothing very much to speak of. Charlie has cut one of his hind legs rather badly, --that must have beenwhen he flung out and broke away; but Beauty hasn't got a scratch, I'mpleased to say, and seems all right. "

"And yourself, Walter?"

"Oh, I'm all safe and sound, except a few bruises and a bit of asprained wrist. --And now, my boy, Walter, I must thank you once more foryour courage and spirit. But for you, your aunt and myself might havebeen lying at the bottom of the chalk-pit, instead of sitting here atthe breakfast-table. "

Walter laughed his thanks for the praise, declaring that he exceedinglyenjoyed getting his father and aunt on to dry land, only he was sorryfor the carriage and horses. But here the butler--who was an old andprivileged servant in the family, and therefore considered himself atliberty to offer occasionally a remark when anything was discussed attable in which he was personally interested--interrupted. 

"If you please, sir, I think Master Amos hasn't had his share of thepraise. 'Twas him as wouldn't let us cut the traces, and then stood byBeauty and kept her still. I don't know where you'd have been, sir, norMiss Huntingdon neither, if it hadn't been for Master Amos's presence ofmind. "

"Ah, well, perhaps so, " said his master, not best pleased with theremark; while Amos turned red, and motioned to the butler to keepsilent. "Presence of mind is a very useful thing in its way, no doubt;but give me good manly courage, --there's nothing like that, to mymind. --What do _you_ say, Kate?"

"Well, Walter, " replied his sister slowly and gravely, "I am afraid Ican hardly quite agree with you there. Not that I wish to take away anyof the credit which is undoubtedly due to Walter. I am sure we are alldeeply indebted to him; and yet I cannot but feel that we are equallyindebted to Amos's presence of mind. "

"Oh, give him his due, by all means, " said the squire, a little nettledat his sister's remark; "but, after all, good old English courage forme. But, of course, as a woman, you naturally don't value courage as wemen do. "

"Do you think not, Walter? Perhaps some of us do not admire couragequite in the same way, or the same sort of courage most; but I thinkthere can be no one of right feeling, either man or woman, who does notadmire real courage. "

"I don't know what you mean, Kate, about `the same sort of courage. 'Courage is courage, I suppose, pretty much the same in everybody who hasit. "

"I was thinking of moral courage, " replied the other quietly; "and thatoften goes with presence of mind. "

"Moral courage! moral courage! I don't understand you, " said herbrother impatiently. "What do you mean by moral courage?"

"Well, dear brother, I don't want to vex you; I was only replying toyour question. I admire natural courage, however it is shown, but Iadmire moral courage most. "

"Well, but you have not told me what you mean by moral courage. "

"I will try and explain myself then. Moral courage, as I understand it, is shown when a person has the bravery and strength of character to actfrom principle, when doing so may subject him, and he knows it, tomisunderstanding, misrepresentation, opposition, ridicule, orpersecution. "

The squire was silent for a moment, and fidgeted on his chair. Amoscoloured and cast down his eyes; while his brother looked up at his auntwith an expression on his face of mingled annoyance and defiance. ThenMr Huntingdon asked, "Well, but what's to hinder a person having bothwhat I should call old-fashioned courage and your moral courage at thesame time?"

"Nothing to hinder it, necessarily, " replied Miss Huntingdon. "Verycommonly, however, they do not go together; or perhaps I ought rather tosay, that while persons who have moral courage often have naturalcourage too, a great many persons who have natural courage have no moralcourage. "

"You mean, aunt, I suppose, " said her nephew Walter, rathersarcastically, "that the one's all `dash' and the other all `duty. '"

"Something of the kind, Walter, " replied his aunt. "The one acts upon asudden impulse, or on the spur of the moment, or from natural spirit;the other acts steadily, and from deliberate conviction. "

"Can you give us an example, aunt?" asked the boy, but now with more ofrespect and less of irritation in his manner. 

"Yes, I can, " she replied; "and I will do so if you like, and my exampleshall be that of one who combined both natural and moral courage. Mymoral hero is Christopher Columbus. "

"A regular brick of a man, I allow; but, dear aunt, pray go on. "

"Well, then, I have always had a special admiration for Columbus becauseof his noble and unwavering moral courage. Just think of what he had tocontend with. It was enough to daunt the stoutest heart and wear outthe most enduring patience. Convinced that somewhere across the oceanto the west there must be a new and undiscovered world, and that itwould be the most glorious of enterprises to find that new world andplant the standard of the Cross among its people, he never wavered inhis one all-absorbing purpose of voyaging to those unknown shores andwinning them for Christ. And yet, from the very first, he met withevery possible discouragement, and had obstacle upon obstacle piled upin his path. He was laughed to scorn as a half-mad enthusiast;denounced as a blasphemer and gainsayer of Scripture truth; cried downas an ignoramus, unworthy of the slightest attention from men ofscience; tantalised by half promises; wearied by vexatious delays: andyet never did his courage fail nor his purpose waver. At last, afteryears of hope deferred and anxieties which made him grey while still inthe prime of life, he was permitted to set sail on what was generallybelieved to be a desperate crusade, with no probable issue but death. And just picture him to yourself, Walter, as he set out on that voyageamidst the sullen murmurs and tears of the people. His ships were three`caravels, ' as they were called, --that is, something the same as ourcoasting colliers, or barges, --and there was no deck in two of them. Besides, they were crazy, leaky, and scarcely seaworthy; and the crewsnumbered only one hundred and twenty men, most of them pressed, and allhating the service. Nevertheless, he ventured with these into an oceanwithout any known shore; and on he went with one fixed, unalterablepurpose, and that was to sail westward, westward, westward till he cameto land. Days and weeks went by, but no land was seen. Provisions ranshort, and every day's course made return home more hopeless. But stillhis mind never changed; still he plunged on across that trackless wasteof waters. The men mutinied--and one can hardly blame them; but hesubdued them by his force of character, --they saw in his eye that whichtold them that their leader was no common man, but one who would dierather than abandon his marvellous enterprise. And you remember theend? The very day after the mutiny, a branch of thorn with berries onit floats by them. They are all excitement. Then a small boardappears; then a rudely-carved stick; then at night Columbus sees alight, and next day lands on the shores of his new world, after a voyageof more than two months over seas hitherto unexplored by man, and invessels which nothing but a special providence could have kept fromfoundering in the mighty waters. The man who could carry out such apurpose in the teeth of such overwhelming opposition, discouragement, and difficulty, may well claim our admiration for courage of the highestand noblest order. "

No one spoke for a moment, and then Mr Huntingdon said, "Well, Kate, Columbus was a brave man, no doubt, and deserves the best you can say ofhim; and I think I see what you mean, from his case, about the greatnessand superiority of moral courage. "

"I am glad, Walter, that I have satisfied you on that point, " was herreply. "You see there was no sudden excitement to call out or sustainhis courage. It was the bravery of principle, not of mere impulse. Itwas so grand because it stood the strain, a daily-increasing strain, oftroubles, trials, and hindrances, which kept multiplying in front of himevery day and hour as he pressed forward; and it never for a moment gaveway under that strain. "

"It was grand indeed, aunt, " said Walter. "I am afraid my courage wouldhave oozed out of every part of me before I had been a week on board oneof those caravels. So all honour to Christopher Columbus and moralcourage. "

That same morning, when Miss Huntingdon was at work in her own privatesitting-room, there came a knock at the door, followed by the head ofWalter peeping round it. 

"May I come in, auntie? I've a favour to ask of you. "

"Come in, dear boy. "

"Well, Aunt Kate, I've been thinking over what you said at breakfastabout moral courage, and I begin to see that I am uncommonly short ofit, and that Amos has got my share of it as well as his own. "

"But that need not be, Walter, " said his aunt; "at least it need notcontinue to be so. "

"I don't know, auntie; perhaps not. But, at any rate, what father callsold-fashioned courage is more in my line; and yet I don't want to bequite without moral courage as well, --so will you promise me just twothings?"

"What are they, Walter?"

"Why, the first is to give me a bit of a hint whenever you see me--whatI suppose I ought to call acting like a moral coward. "

"Well, dear boy, I can do that. But how am I to give the hint if othersare by? for you would not like me to speak out before your father or theservants. "

"I'll tell you, auntie, what you shall do--that is to say, of course, ifyou don't mind. Whenever you see me showing moral cowardice, or want ofmoral courage, and I suppose that comes much to the same thing, and youwould like to give me a hint without speaking, would you put one of yourhands quietly on the table, and then the other across it--just so--andleave them crossed till I notice them?"

"Yes, Walter, I can do that, and I _will_ do it; though I daresay youwill sometimes think me hard and severe. "

"Never mind that, auntie; it will do me good. "

"Well, dear boy, and what is the other thing I am to promise?"

"Why, this, --I want you, the first opportunity after the hint, when youand I are alone together, to tell me some story--it must be a true one, mind--of some good man or woman, or boy or girl, who has shown moralcourage just where I didn't show it. `Example is better than precept, 'they say, and I am sure it is a great help to me; for I shan't forgetChristopher Columbus and his steady moral courage in a hurry. "

"I am very glad to hear what you say, Walter, " replied his aunt; "and itwill give me great pleasure to do what you wish. My dear, dear nephew, I do earnestly desire to see you grow up into a truly noble man, and Iwant to be, as far as God permits me, in the place of a mother to you. "

As Miss Huntingdon uttered these words with deep emotion, Walter flunghis arms passionately round her, and, sinking on his knees, buried hisface in her lap, while tears and sobs, such as he was little accustomedto give vent to, burst from him. 

"O auntie!" he said vehemently, when he had a little recovered himself, "I know I am not what I ought to be, with all my dash and courage, whichpleases father so much. I'm quite sure that there's a deal of humbug inme after all. It's very nice to please him, and to hear him praise meand call me brave; but I should like to please you too. It would beworth more, in one way, to have _your_ praise, though father is verykind. "

"Well, my dear boy, I hope you will be able to please me too, and, better still, to please God. " She spoke gently and almost sadly as shesaid these words, kissing at the same time Walter's fair brow. 

"I'm afraid, auntie, " was the boy's reply, "I don't think much aboutthat. But Amos does, I know; and though I laugh at him sometimes, yet Irespect him for all that, and I believe he will turn out the true heroafter all. "

CHAPTER FOUR. 

THE CRIPPLED HORSE. 

Nature and circumstances had produced widely differing characters in thetwo brothers. Walter, forward enough by natural temperament, and readyto assert himself on all occasions, was brought more forward still andencouraged in self-esteem and self-indulgence, by the injudiciousfondness of both his parents. Handsome in person, with a merry smileand a ripple of joyousness rarely absent from his bright face, he wasthe favourite of all guests at his father's house, and a sharer in theirfield-sports and pastimes. That his father and mother loved him betterthan they loved Amos it was impossible for him not to see; and, as hegrew to mature boyhood, a feeling of envy, when he heard both parentsregret that himself was not their heir, drew his heart further andfurther from his elder brother, and led him to exhibit what heconsidered his superiority to him as ostentatiously as possible, thatall men might see what a mistake Nature had made in the order of time inwhich she had introduced the two sons into the family. Not that Walterreally hated his brother; he would have been shocked to admit to himselfthe faintest shadow of such a feeling, for he was naturally generous andof warm affections; but he clearly looked upon his elder brother asdecidedly in his way and in the wrong place, and often made a butt ofhim, considering it quite fair to play off his sarcasms and jokes on onewho had stolen a march upon him by coming into the world before him asheir of the family estate. And now that their mother--who had made nosecret of her preference of Walter to her elder son--was removed fromthem, the cords of Mr Huntingdon's affections were wound tighter thanever round his younger son, in whom he could scarce see a fault, howeverglaringly visible it might be to others; while poor Amos's shortcomingsreceived the severest censure, and his weaknesses were visited on him assins. No wonder, then, that, spite of the difference in their ages andorder of birth, Walter Huntingdon looked upon himself as a colossalfigure in the household, and on his poor brother as a cipher. 

On the other hand, Amos, if he had been of a similar temperament to hisbrother, would have been inevitably more or less cowed and driven intohimself by the circumstances which surrounded him, and the treatmentwhich he undeservedly received at the hands of his parents and youngerbrother. Being, however, naturally of a shy and nervous disposition, hewould have been completely crushed under the burden of heartlessneglect, and his heart frozen up by the withholding of a father's andmother's love, had it not been for the gentle and deep affection of hisaunt, Miss Huntingdon, who was privileged to lead that poor, desolate, craving heart to Him whose special office it is to pour a heavenly balminto the wounded spirit. In herself, too, he found a source of comfortfrom her pitying love, which in a measure took the place of that whichhis nearest ought to have given him, but did not. And so, as boy andyoung man, Amos Huntingdon learned, under the severe discipline of hisearthly home, lessons which were moulding his character to a nobilitywhich few suspected, who, gazing on that timid, shrinking youth, went ontheir way with a glance or shrug of pity. But so it was. 

Amos had formed a mighty purpose; it was to be the one object of hisearthly life, to which everything was to bend till he had accomplishedit. But who would have thought of such an iron resolution of will in abreast like that poor boy's? For to him an ordinary conversation was atrial, and to speak in company an effort, though it was but to answer asimple question. If a stranger asked his opinion, a nervous blushcovered his face as he forced out a reply. The solitude which othersfound irksome had special charms for him. With one person only in hisown home did he feel really at ease, --that person was his aunt, for hebelieved that she in a measure really understood and sympathised withhim. And yet that shy, nervous, retiring young man, down-trodden andrepulsed as he was, was possessed by one grand and all-absorbingpurpose: it was this, to bring back his sister to her father's homeforgiven, and his mother to that same home with the cloud removed fromher mind and spirit. 

That both these objects _might_ be accomplished he was firmly persuaded. At the same time, he was fully aware that to every one else who knewhis father and the circumstances which had led to the sad estrangementof the daughter and removal of the mother, such a restoration as hecontemplated bringing about would appear absolutely hopeless. Yet hehimself had no doubts on the subject. The conviction that his purposemight and would be accomplished was stamped into his soul as by anindelible brand. He was perfectly sure that every hindrance could beremoved, though _how_ he could not tell. But there stood up thisconviction ever facing him, ever beckoning him on, as though a messengerfrom an unseen world. Not that he was ignorant of nor underrated themagnitude of the obstacles in his way. He knew and felt mostoppressively that everything almost was against him. The very thoughtof speaking to his father on the subject made a chill shudder creep overhim. To move a single step in the direction of the attainment of hisobject required an effort from which his retiring nature shrank as ifstung by a spark of white heat. The opposition, direct or indirect, ofthose nearest to him was terrible even to contemplate, and was magnifiedwhile yet at a distance through the haze of his morbid sensitiveness. Yet his conviction and purpose remained unshaken. He was, moreover, fully aware that neither mother nor sister had any deep affection forhim, and that, should he gain the end he had set before him, he mightget no nearer to their hearts than the place he now occupied. Itmattered not; he had devoted himself to his great object as to a work ofholy self-denial and labour of love, and from the pursuit of that objectnothing should move him, but onward he would struggle towards itsattainment, with the steady determination which would crush throughhindrances and obstacles by the weight of its tremendous earnestness. 

This purpose had hovered before his thoughts in dim outline while he wasyet a boy, and had at length assumed its full and clear proportionswhile he was at Oxford. There it was that he became acquainted with aChristian young man who, pitying his loneliness and appreciating hischaracter, had sought and by degrees obtained his friendship, and, in ameasure, his confidence, as far as he was able to give it. To hissurprise Amos discovered that his new friend's father was the physicianunder whose charge and in whose house his own mother, Mrs Huntingdon, had been placed. Mr Huntingdon had kept the matter a profound secretfrom his own children, and no member of his household ever ventured toallude to the poor lady or to her place of retirement, and it was onlyby an inadvertence on his young friend's part that Amos became aware ofhis mother's present abode. But this knowledge, after the firstexcitement of surprise had passed away, only strengthened the purposewhich had gradually taken its settled hold upon his heart. It was tohim a new and important link in the chain of events which would lead, heknew, finally to the accomplishment of his one great resolve. And so hedetermined to communicate with his friend's father, the physician, andascertain from him in confidence his opinion of his mother's mentalcondition, and whether there was any possibility of her restoration tosanity. The reply to his inquiries was that his mother's case was farfrom hopeless; and with this he was satisfied. Then he took the letterwhich conveyed the opinion of the physician to him, and, spreading itout before God in his chamber, solemnly and earnestly dedicated himselfto the work of restoration, asking guidance and strength from on high. 

From that day forward he was gradually maturing his plans, being ever onthe watch to catch any ray of light which might show him where to placea footstep on the road which led up to the end he had in view. Earthlycounsellors he had none; he dared not have any--at least not at present. Even Miss Huntingdon knew nothing of his purpose from himself, thoughshe had some suspicions of his having devoted himself to some specialwork, gathered from her own study of his character and conduct; butthese suspicions she kept entirely to herself, prepared to advise orassist should Amos give her his confidence in the matter, and seek hercounsel or help. Such was the position of things when our story opens. Amos was waiting, hoping, watching; but no onward step had been takensince he had received the physician's letter. 

A fortnight passed away after the accident, when Miss Huntingdon, whohad now completely recovered from her fright and bruises, was coming outof a labouring man's cottage on a fine and cheery afternoon. As shestood on the doorstep exchanging a few parting words with the cottager'swife, she was startled by the sound of furious galloping not far off, and shrank back into the cottage, naturally dreading the sight of anexcited horse so soon after her perilous upset in her brother'scarriage. Nearer and nearer came the violent clatter, and, as sheinvoluntarily turned her eyes towards the road with a nervous terror, she was both alarmed and surprised to see her nephew Walter and anotheryoung man dashing past on horseback at whirlwind speed, the animals onwhich they rode being covered with foam. 

In a few moments all was still again, and Miss Huntingdon continued herrounds, but, as she turned the corner of a lane which led up to the backof the Manor-house, she was startled at seeing her nephew Walter infront of her on foot, covered with mud, and leading his horse, which waslimping along with difficulty, being evidently in pain. His companionwas walking by his side, also leading his horse, and both were soabsorbed with their present trouble that they were quite unconscious ofher approach. Something plainly was much amiss. Walter had had a fall, and his horse was injured; of this there could be no doubt. Could shebe of any service? She was just going to press forward, when sheobserved Mr Huntingdon's groom coming from the direction of the house, and, as her nephew did not walk as if he had received any seriousinjury, she thought it better to leave him to put matters straight forhimself, knowing that young men are very sensitive about beinginterfered with or helped when their pride has been wounded by anyhumiliating catastrophe. So she turned aside into a small copse throughwhich was a short cut to the house, intending to go forward and beprepared to render any assistance should Walter desire it. 

None of the party had seen her, but she passed near enough to them onthe other side of a tall hedge to overhear the words, "Won't thegovernor just be mad!" and then, "Here's a sovereign, Dick, and I'llmake it all straight for you with my father. " What could have happened?She was not long left in suspense; for her brother's voice in highanger soon resounded through the house, and she learned from her maid, who rushed into her room full of excitement, that Forester, MrHuntingdon's favourite hunter, had been lamed, and otherwise seriouslyinjured, and that Dick the groom, who had been the author of themischief, had been dismissed at a moment's notice. 

Poor Miss Huntingdon's heart misgave her that all had not been quitestraightforward in the matter, and that the blame had been laid on thewrong person. So she went down to dinner, at the summoning of the gong, with a heavy heart. As she entered the drawing-room she saw herbrother, who usually advanced to give her his arm with all due courtesy, sitting still in his easy-chair, hiding his face with the newspaper, which a glance showed her to be turned the wrong way up. Amos also andWalter were seated as far apart from their father and from each other aswas possible, and for a few moments not a word was spoken. Then, suddenly remembering himself, the squire dismissed the paper from hishand with an irritable jerk, and, with the words, "I suppose that meansdinner, " gave his arm to his sister, and conducted her in silence to thedining-room. 

Nothing in the shape of conversation followed for a while, MrHuntingdon having shut up his sister by a very curt reply to a questionwhich she put on some commonplace subject, just for the sake of breakingthrough the oppressive stillness. At length, when the meal was half-waythrough, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed abruptly, --

"I can't understand for the life of me how that fool of a Dick evermanaged to get poor Forester into such a scrape. I always thought theboy understood horses better than that. "

"I hope, Walter, " ventured his sister in a soothing tone, "that the pooranimal is not seriously, or at any rate permanently, damaged. "

"Nonsense, Kate, " he exclaimed peevishly;--"but, pardon me, it's nofault of yours. Damaged! I should think so. I doubt if he will everbe fit to ride again. But I can't make it out quite yet, it's veryvexing. I had rather have given a hundred pounds than it should havehappened. And Dick, too; the fellow told the queerest tale about it. Ishould have thought he was telling a lie, only he was taking the blameto himself, and that didn't look like lying. --By-the-by, Amos, have_you_ been out riding this afternoon?"

"Yes, father. "

"What horse did you ride?"

"My own pony, Prince. "

"Did you meet Dick exercising the horses?"

"No; I didn't see anything of him. "

"That is strange. Where were you riding to?"

"I was off on a little business beyond the moor. "

"Beyond the moor! what can you have been wanting beyond the moor?"

Amos turned red and did not reply. 

"I don't know what has come to the boy, " said the squire surlily. Butnow Walter, who had not uttered a word hitherto, broke in suddenly, "Father, you mustn't be hard upon Dick. It's a misfortune, after all. There isn't a better rider anywhere; only accidents will happensometimes, as you know they did the other night. Forester bolted whenthe little girl's red cloak blew off and flapped right on to his eyes. Dick was not expecting it, and tried to keep the horses in; but Forestersprang right through a hedge and staked himself before Dick could pullhim in. It's a mercy, I think, that Dick hadn't his neck broke. "

He said these last words slowly and reluctantly, for his eye had restedon his aunt's hands, which were being laid quietly one across the otheron the table in front of her. 

"Red cloak!" exclaimed the squire; "why, Dick told me it was a boy's hatthat blew off and flapped against Forester's eyes. "

"Ah! well, father, it may have been a hat. I thought he said a cloak;but it comes pretty much to the same thing. "

There was an unsteadiness about the boy's voice as he said these lastwords which every one noticed except his father. The subject, however, was now dropped, and was not again alluded to during the evening. 

Next morning after breakfast Walter knocked at his aunt's door. When hehad entered and taken the offered chair by her side, he sat for a minuteor so with eyes cast down, and silent. 

"Well, Walter, " she said after a while. 

"_Ill_, auntie, " he replied, in a voice between a laugh and a sigh. 

"What is it, dear Walter?"

"Only those two hands of yours, dear auntie. "

"Was there not a cause, Walter?"

No reply. 

"Shall I tell you one of the stories you asked me to tell about moralcourage?"

"Do, auntie dear, " he said in a low tearful voice. 

"My hero this morning, Walter, is George Washington, the great Americangeneral and statesman, the man who had so much to do in the founding ofthat great republic which is called the United States. A braver mannever lived; but he was a brave boy too, brave with moral courage. Notthat he wanted natural courage in his early years, for at school nonecould beat him in leaping, wrestling, swimming, and other athleticexercises. When he was about six years old, his father gave him a newhatchet one day. George was highly pleased, and went about cutting andhacking everything in his way. Unfortunately, amongst other things heused the hatchet with all the force of his little arm on a young Englishcherry tree, which happened to be a great favourite with his father. Without thinking of the mischief he was doing, George greatly injuredthe valuable tree. When his father saw what was done he was very angry, and asked the servants who had dared to injure the tree. They said theyknew nothing of it; when little George entering the room and hearing theinquiry, though he saw that his father was very angry, went straight upto him, his cheeks colouring crimson as he spoke, and cried, `I did it. I cannot tell a lie. I cut your cherry tree with my hatchet. ' `Mynoble boy, ' said his father, as he clasped him in his arms, `I wouldrather lose a hundred cherry-trees, were their blossoms of silver andtheir fruit of gold, than that a son of mine should dare to tell alie. '--Dear Walter, that was true noble courage; and George Washingtongrew up with it. Those are beautiful lines of one of our old poets, George Herbert, --

 "`Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; The fault that needs it most grows two thereby. '"

She paused. Her nephew kept silent for a time, nervously twisting thefringe of her little work-table; and then he said very slowly andsadly, --

"So, auntie, you have found me out. Yes, I've been a beastly coward, and I'm heartily ashamed of myself. "

"Well, dear boy, " replied his aunt, "tell me all about it; happily, itis never too late to mend. "

"Yes, dear Aunt Kate, I'll tell you all. Bob Saunders called yesterdayjust after luncheon, and asked me to go out for a ride with him, and ifI could give him a mount, for his own horse was laid up with someoutlandish complaint. I didn't like to say `No;' but my own pony, Punch, was gone to be shod, and Bob had no time to wait. Well, Dick wasjust coming out of the yard as I got into it; he was riding Forester andleading Bessie, to exercise them. `That'll do, ' I said. `Here, Dick;I'll take Forester out and give him a trot, and Mr Saunders can rideBessie. ' `Please, Master Walter, ' says Dick, `your father's veryparticular. I don't know what he'll say to me if I let you exerciseForester. ' `Oh, nonsense!' I said. `I'll make that all straight. 'Dick didn't like it; but I wouldn't be denied, so he let us mount, andbegged me to be very careful. `Never fear, ' I said; `we'll bring themboth back as cool as cucumbers. ' And I meant it, auntie. But somehowor other our spirits got the better of us; it was such a fine afternoon, and the horses seemed wild for a gallop; so at last Bob Saunders said, `What do you say, Walter, to a half-mile race just on to the top of thecommon? it'll do them no harm. ' Well, I didn't say yes or no; butsomehow or other, off we were in another minute, and, do what I would, Icouldn't keep Forester back. Down the lane we went, and right over thecommon like lightning, and, when I was pulling hard to get Foresterround, he went smack through a hedge, and left me on the wrong side ofit. Bob laughed at first, but we soon saw that it was no laughingmatter. He caught Forester directly, for the poor beast had hurt hisfoot, and limped along as he walked; and there was an ugly wound in hischest from a pointed stick in the hedge which had struck him. So wecrawled home, all of us in a nice pickle, you may be sure. And then Ibegan to think of what father would say, and I couldn't bear to thinkthat he would have to blame me for it all; so I turned into a regularsneaking coward, and gave Dick a sovereign to tell a lie and take theblame on himself, promising him to make it all right with my father. There, auntie, that's just the whole of it; and I'm sure I never knewwhat a coward I was before. But only let me get well through thisscrape, and my name's not Walter if I ever get into such another. "

"And now, dear boy, what are you going to do about this matter?" askedhis aunt after a pause. 

"Do, auntie? I'm sure I don't know; I've done too much already. It's abad business at the best, and I don't see that I can do anything aboutit without making it worse. "

"Then, Walter, is the burden still to rest on the wrong shoulders? andis Dick to be punished for your fault?"

"Oh, as to that, auntie, Dick shan't be the worse for it in the end: hehas had a _sovereign_ remedy already; and I'll beg him off from beingturned away when I see my father has quite cooled down. "

Miss Huntingdon said nothing in reply, but laid one of her hands acrossthe other on her little work-table. Walter saw the action, but turnedhis head away and fidgeted in his chair. At last he said, "That'srather hard, auntie, to make me a moral coward again so soon. "

"Is it hard, Walter?" she replied gently. "The next best thing to notdoing wrong is to be sorry for it when you have done it. "

"Well, Aunt Kate, I _am_ sorry--terribly sorry. I wish I'd nevertouched the horses. I wish that fellow Bob had been a hundred miles offyesterday afternoon. "

"I daresay, Walter; but is that all? Are you not going to _show_ thatyou are sorry? Won't you imitate, as far as it is now possible, littleGeorge Washington's moral courage?"

"What! go and tell my father the whole truth? Do you think I ought?"

"I am sure you ought, dear boy. "

Walter reflected for a while, then he said, in a sorrowful tone, "Ah, but there's a difference. George Washington didn't and wouldn't tell alie, but I would, and did; so it's too late now for me to show moralcourage. "

"Not at all, Walter; on the contrary, it will take a good deal of moralcourage to confess your fault now. Of course it would have been farnobler had you gone straight to your father and told him just how thingswere; and then, too, you would not have been Dick's tempter, leading himto sin. Still, there is a right and noble course open to you now, dearboy, which is to go and undo the mischief and the wrong as far as youcan. "

"Well, I suppose you are right, auntie, " he said slowly, and with aheavy sigh; "but I shan't find _my_ father throwing his arms round me asGeorge Washington's father did, and calling me his noble boy, andtelling me he had rather I told the truth than have a thousand gold andsilver cherry-trees. "

"Perhaps not, Walter; but you will have, at any rate, the satisfactionof doing what will have the approval of God, and of your own conscience, and of the aunt who wants you to do the thing that is right. "

"It shall be done, " said her nephew, pressing his lips together andknitting his brows by way of strengthening his resolution; and he leftthe room with a reluctant step. 

He found his father, who had just come from the stables, in the dining-room. "Well, Walter, my boy, " he said cheerily, "it isn't so bad withForester after all. He has got an ugly cut; but he doesn't walk butvery slightly lame. A week's rest will set him all right; but I shallsend that Dick about his business to-morrow, or as soon as his quarter'sup. I'd a better opinion of the boy. "

"Dick's not to blame, " said Walter slowly. 

"Not to blame! How do you make out that? I'm sure, if he had hadForester well in hand, the accident couldn't have happened. "

Walter then gave his father the true version of the mishap, andconfessed his own wrong-doing in the matter. For a few moments MrHuntingdon looked utterly taken aback; then he walked up and down theroom, at first with wide and excited strides, and then more calmly. Atlast he stopped, and, putting his hand on his son's shoulder, said, "That's right, my boy. We won't say anything more about it this time;but you mustn't do it again. " The truth was, the squire was not sorryto find that Dick, after all, was not the culprit; for he had a greatliking for the lad, who suited him excellently as groom, and hadreceived many kindnesses from him. No doubt he had told him an untruthon the present occasion; but then, as he had done this to screen hismaster's favourite son, Mr Huntingdon did not feel disposed to take himto task severely for the deceit; and, as Walter had now made the onlyamends in his power, his father was glad to withdraw Dick's dismissal, and to pass over the trouble without further comment. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

IS HE RIDICULOUS?

Few people besides the actual sufferers can at all conceive orappreciate the intense misery which shy and retiring charactersexperience when themselves or their conduct are made the subjects ofopen ridicule, especially in company. Amos was peculiarly sensitive onthis point; and Walter knew it, and too often ungenerously availedhimself of this knowledge to wound his brother when he owed him agrudge, or was displeased or out of temper with him. He would watch hisopportunity to drag Amos forward, as it were, when he could present himto his father and his friends in a ridiculous light; and then he wouldclap his hands, point to his brother's flushed face, and make sometaunting or sarcastic remark about his "rosy cheeks. " Poor Amos, onthese occasions, tingling in every nerve, and ready almost to weep tearsof vexation, would shrink into himself and retreat into another room atthe earliest opportunity, followed not unfrequently by an outspokenreproach from his brother, that "he must be a regular muff if hecouldn't bear a joke. " Sometimes Walter's unfeeling sallies wouldreceive a feeble rebuke from his father; but more often Mr Huntingdonwould join in the laugh, and remark to his friends that Amos had nospirit in him, and that all the wit of the family was centred in Walter. Not so Miss Huntingdon. She fully understood the feelings of both hernephews; and, while she profoundly pitied Amos, she equally grieved atthe cruel want of love and forbearance in her younger nephew towards hiselder brother. 

Some weeks had passed away since the disastrous ride, and Forester beingnone the worse for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercisehim occasionally, accompanied by Dick, who had been fully restored tofavour. It was on a lovely summer afternoon that the two had trottedbriskly along to a greater distance from home than they had at allcontemplated reaching when they started. They had now arrived at a partof the country quite unknown to Walter, and were just opposite a neatlittle cottage with a porch in front of it covered with honeysuckle, when Walter checked his horse, and said, "Dick, it's full time we turnedback, or my father will wonder what has become of us. " So they turnedhomewards. They had not, however, ridden more than a quarter of a mile, when Walter found that he had dropped one of his gloves; so, tellingDick to walk his horse, and he would join him in a few minutes, hereturned to the little cottage, and, having recovered his glove justopposite the gate, was in the act of remounting, when he suddenlyexclaimed, "Holloa! what's that? Well, I never! It can't be, surely!Yes, it is, and no mistake!"

The sight which called forth these words of surprise from Walter was onethat might naturally astonish him. At the moment when he was about tospring into his saddle, the cottage door had opened, and out ran alittle boy and girl about four or five years of age, followed by AmosHuntingdon, who chased them round the little garden, crying out, "I'llcatch you, George; I'll catch you, Polly;" laughing loud as he said so, while the children rushed forward shouting at the fun. They had gonethus twice round the paths, when Amos became suddenly aware that he wasbeing observed by some one on horseback. In an instant he made a rushfor the house, and, as he was vanishing through the porch, a woman'shead and a portion of her dress became visible in the entrance. 

Walter paused in utter bewilderment; but the next minute Amos was at hisside, and said, in a hoarse, troubled voice, "Not a word of this, Walter, not a word of this to any one at home. " Walter's only reply tothis at first was a hearty peal of laughter; then he cried out, "Allright, Amos;" and, taking off his hat with affected ceremony, he added, "My best respects to Mrs Amos, and love to the dear children. Good-bye. " Saying which, without stopping to hear another word from hisbrother, whose appealing look might well have touched his heart, heurged his horse to a canter, and was gone. 

Amos did not appear among the family that evening. He had returned homejust before dinner-time, and sent a message into the drawing-room askingto be excused as he did not feel very well. Miss Huntingdon went up tohis room to see what was amiss, and returned with the report that therewas nothing seriously wrong; that her nephew had a bad sick headache, and that bed was the best thing at present for him. Mr Huntingdonasked no further questions, for Amos was not unfrequently kept bysimilar attacks from joining the family circle. His father sometimesthought and called him fanciful, but for the most part left him to do ashe liked, without question or remark. And so it was that Amos had grownup to manhood without settling down to any profession, and was leftpretty much to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His father knewthat there was no need to be anxious about him on the score of worldlyprovision. He had seen well to his education, having sent him to a goodschool, and in due time to the university, and, till he came of age, hadmade him a sufficient allowance, which was now no longer needed, sincehe had come into a small fortune at his majority, left him by hismother's father; and, as he was heir to the entailed property, there wasno need for concern as to his future prospects, so no effort was made byMr Huntingdon to draw him out of his natural timidity and reserve, andinduce him to enter on any regular professional employment. Perhaps hewould take to travelling abroad some day, and that would enlarge hismind and rouse him a bit. At present he really would make nothing oflaw, physic, or divinity. He was sufficiently provided for, and wouldturn out some day a useful and worthy man, no doubt; but he was nevermeant to shine; he must leave that to Walter, who had got it naturallyin him. So thought and so sometimes said the squire; and poor Amospretty much agreed with this view of his father's; and Walter did so, ofcourse. The Manor-house therefore continued Amos's home till he shouldchoose to make another for himself. 

But was he making a new home for himself? This was Walter's bewilderingthought as he cantered back, after his strange discovery of his brotherat the cottage. Was it really so? Had this shy, silent brother of hisactually taken to himself a wife unknown to any one, just as his poorsister had married clandestinely? It might be so--and why not? Strangepeople do strange things; and not only so, but Walter's conscience toldhim that his brother might well have been excused for seeking love _out_of his home, seeing that he got but little love _in_ it. And what aboutthe children? No doubt they were hers; he must have married a widow. But what a poky place they were living in. She must have been poor, andhave inveigled Amos into marrying her, knowing that he was heir toFlixworth Manor. Eh, what a disgrace! Such were Walter's thoughts ashe rode home from the scene of the strange encounter. But then, again, he felt that this was nothing but conjecture after all. Why might notAmos have just been doing a kind act to some poor cottager and herchildren, whom he had learned to take an interest in? And yet it wasodd that he should be so terribly upset at being found out in doing alittle act of kindness. Walter was sure that not a shadow of moralwrong could rest on his brother's conduct. He might have made a fool ofhimself, but it could not be anything worse. 

One thing, however, Walter was resolved upon, he would have a bit of funout of his discovery. So next day at luncheon, when they were seated attable, unattended by a servant, Amos being among them, but unusuallynervous and ill at ease, Walter abruptly inquired of his brother acrossthe table if he could lend him a copy of the "Nursery Rhymes. " No replybeing given, Walter continued, "Oh, do give us a song, Amos, --`Ride aCock Horse, ' or `Baby Bunting, ' or `Hi, Diddle, Diddle. ' I'm sure youmust have been practising these lately to sing to those dear children. "

As he said this, Amos turned his eyes on him with a gaze so imploringthat Walter was for a moment silenced. Miss Huntingdon also noticedthat look, and, though she could not tell the cause of it, she wasdeeply pained that her nephew should have called it forth from hisbrother. Walter, however, was not to be kept from his joke, though hehad noticed that his aunt looked gravely and sorrowfully at him, and hadcrossed one hand upon the other. "Ah, well, " he went on, "love in acottage is a very romantic thing, no doubt; and I hope these darlinglittle ones, Amos, enjoy the best of health. "

"Whatever does the boy mean?" exclaimed the squire, whose attention wasnow fairly roused. 

Amos looked at first, when his father put the question, as though hewould have sunk into the earth. His colour came and went, and he halfrose up, as though he would have left the table; but, after a moment'spause, he resumed his seat, and, turning quietly to Mr Huntingdon, saidin a low, clear voice, "Walter saw me yesterday afternoon playing withsome little children in a cottage-garden some miles from this house. This is all about it. "

"And what brought you there, Amos?" asked Walter. "Little baby gamesaren't much in your line. "

"I had my reasons for what I was doing, " replied the other calmly. "Iam not ashamed of it; I have done nothing to be ashamed of in thematter. I can give no other explanation at present. But I must regretthat I have not more of the love and confidence of my only brother. "

"Oh, nonsense! You make too much of Walter's foolish fun; it means noharm, " said the squire pettishly. 

"Perhaps not, dear father, " replied Amos gently; "but some funny wordshave a very sharp edge to them. "

No sooner had Miss Huntingdon retired to her room after luncheon thanshe was joined by Walter. He pretended not to look at her, but, layinghold of her two hands, and then putting them wide apart from oneanother, he said, still keeping his eyes fixed on them, "Unkind hands ofa dear, kind aunt, you had no business to be crossed at luncheon to-day, for poor Walter had done no harm, he had not showed any want of moralcourage. "

Disengaging her hands from her nephew's grasp, Miss Huntingdon put oneof them on his shoulder, and with the other drew him into a chair. "Ismy dear Walter satisfied with his behaviour to his brother?" she asked. 

"Ah! that was not the point, Aunt Kate, " was his reply; "the hands wereto be crossed when I had failed in moral courage; and I have not failedto-day. "

"No, Walter, perhaps not; but you told me you should like to be taughtmoral courage by examples, and what happened to-day suggested to me avery striking example, so I crossed my hands. "

"Well, dear auntie, please let me hear it. "

"My moral hero to-day is Colonel Gardiner, Walter. "

"Ah! he was a soldier then, auntie?"

"Yes, and a very brave one too; indeed, never a braver. When he was ayoung man, and had not been many years in the army, he was terriblywounded in a battle, and lay on the field unable to raise himself to hisfeet or move from his place. Thinking that some one might come round toplunder the dead and dying before his friends could find him--as, alas!there were some who were heartless enough to do in those days--and notwishing that his money should be taken from him, as he had several goldpieces about him, he managed to get these pieces out of his pocket, andthen to glue them in his clenched hand with the clotted blood which hadcollected about one of his wounds. Then he became insensible, andfriends at last recovered his body and brought him to consciousnessagain, and the money was found safe in his unrelaxed grasp. I mentionthis merely to show the cool and deliberate courage of the man; hiswonderful pluck, as you would call it. "

"Very plucky, auntie, very; but please go on. "

"Well, many years after, he died in battle, and showed the samemarvellous bravery then. It was in the disastrous engagement ofPrestonpans, in the year 1745. The Highlanders surprised the Englisharmy, turned their position, and seized their cannon. Colonel Gardinerexerted himself to the utmost, but his men quickly fled, and otherregiments did the same. He then joined a small body of English foot whoremained firm, but they were soon after overpowered by the Highlanders. At the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a fewminutes, Colonel Gardiner received a bullet-wound in his left breast;but he said it was only a flesh-wound, and fought on, though hepresently after received a shot in the thigh. Then, seeing a party ofthe foot bravely fighting near him, who had no officer to head them, herode up to them and cried aloud, `Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing!'Just then he was cut down by a man with a scythe, and fell. He wasdragged off his horse, and received a mortal blow on the back of hishead; and yet he managed to wave his hat as a signal to a faithfulservant to retreat, crying out at the same time, `Take care ofyourself. '"

"Bravo! auntie, that was true courage if you like; that's old-fashionedcourage such as suits my father and me. "

"I know it, Walter. But Colonel Gardiner showed a higher and noblercourage; higher and nobler because it required far more steady self-denial, and arose from true religious principle. I want you to noticethe contrast, and that is why I have mentioned these instances of what Imay call his animal bravery. I have no wish to rob him of the honourdue to him for those acts of courage; but then, after all, he was bravein those constitutionally, --I might say, indeed, because he could nothelp it. It was very different with his moral courage. When he wasliving an utterly godless and indeed wicked life, it pleased God toarrest him in his evil career by a wonderful vision of our Saviourhanging on the cross for him. It was the turning-point of his life. Hebecame a truly changed man, and as devoted a Christian as he hadformerly been a slave to the world and his own sinful habits. And nowhe had to show on whose side he was and meant to be. It is always adifficult thing to be outspoken for religion in the army, but it was tentimes as difficult then as it is now, seeing that in our day there areso many truly Christian officers and common soldiers in the service. Drunkenness and swearing were dreadfully prevalent; indeed, in thosedays it was quite a rare thing to find an officer who did not defile hisspeech continually with profane oaths. But Colonel Gardiner was not aman to do things by halves: he was now enlisted under Christ's banner asa soldier of the Cross, and he must stand up for his new Master andnever be ashamed of him anywhere. But to do this would bring himpersecution in a shape peculiarly trying to him, --I mean in the shape ofridicule. He would, he tells us, at first, when the change had onlylately taken place in him, rather a thousandfold have marched up to themouth of a cannon just ready to be fired than stand up to bear the scornand jests of his ungodly companions; he winced under these, andinstinctively shrank back from them. Nevertheless, he braved all, thescorn, the laughter, the jokes, and made it known everywhere that he wasnot ashamed of confessing his Saviour, cost what it might; and he evenmanaged, by a mixture of firm remonstrance and good-tempered persuasion, to put down all profane swearing whenever he was present, by inducinghis brother officers to consent to the payment of a fine by the guiltyparty for every oath uttered. And so by his consistency he won atlength the respect of all who knew him, even of those who most widelydiffered from him in faith and practice. There, Walter, that is what Icall true and grand moral courage and heroism. "

"So it was, so it was, dear auntie; but why have you brought forwardColonel Gardiner's case for my special benefit on the present occasion?"

"I will tell you, dear boy. You think it fine fun to play off yourjokes on Amos, and nothing seems to please you better than to raise thelaugh against him and to bring the hot flush into his cheeks. Ah! butyou little know the pain and the misery you are inflicting; you littleknow the moral courage it requires on your brother's part to stand upunder that ridicule without resenting it, and to go on with any purposehe may have formed in spite of it. I want you to see a reflection ofColonel Gardiner's noblest courage, his high moral courage, in your owndear brother, and to value him for it, and not to despise him, as I seeyou now do. You say you want to be free from moral cowardice; then, copy moral courage wherever you can see it. "

"Well, auntie, " said her nephew after a minute's silence, "I daresay youare right. Poor Amos! I've been very hard upon him, I believe. Itwasn't right, and I'll try and do better. But it's such a funny ideataking _him_ as a copy. Why, everybody's always telling me to mark whatAmos does, and just do the very opposite. "

"Not everybody, Walter; not the aunt who wants to see you truly good andnoble. There are a grandeur of character and true nobility in Amoswhich you little suspect, but which one day you also will admire, thoughyou do not see nor understand them now. "

Walter did not reply. He was not best pleased with his aunt's lastremarks, and yet, at the same time, he was not satisfied with himself. So he rose to go, and as he did so he said, "Ah, Aunt Kate, I see youare in Amos's confidence, and that you know all about the littlechildren and their cottage home. "

"Nay, my boy, " replied his aunt, "you are mistaken; Amos has not made mehis confidante in the matter. But I have formed my opinion of him andhis motives from little things which have presented themselves to myobservation from time to time, and I have a firm conviction that mynephew Walter will agree with me in the end about his brother, whateverhe may think now. At least I hope so. "

"So do I, dear auntie. Good-bye, good-bye. " And, having said thesewords half playfully and half seriously, Walter vanished from the roomwith a hop, skip, and jump. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

MISAPPREHENSION. 

Miss Huntingdon was not the only person in the family at Flixworth Manorwho entertained a deep affection for Amos Huntingdon, and highly valuedhim. Harry the butler loved him as if he had been his own son. The oldman had been inherited with the estate by its present owner, whoremembered him almost as long as he could remember anything, and had asincere regard for him, knowing him to be one of those old-fashioneddomestics who look upon their employer's interests as their own. Harry's hair was now snowy-white, but he retained much of his vigourunimpaired, the winter of his old age being "frosty, but kindly. " So hehad never gone by any other name than "Harry, " nor wished to do so, withhis master and his master's friends. However, in the kitchen heexpected to be called "_Mr_. Frazer, " and would answer to no other namewhen addressed by boys and strangers of his own rank. When the firstchild was born Harry took to her with all his might. He knew that hismaster was disappointed because she was not a boy, but that made nodifference to Harry. Nothing pleased him better than to act now andthen as nurse to Miss Julia when she was still in long clothes; and manya peal of hearty and innocent mirth resounded from the kitchen premisesas the servants gazed, with tears of amusement running down their faces, at _Mr_. Frazer, by the nurse's permission, pacing up and down a sunnywalk in the kitchen garden, with steps slow and grotesquely dignified, holding the infant warily and tenderly, affirming, when he gave her backto the nurse, in a self-congratulatory tone, that "little miss" would bequiet with him when she would be so with no one else; which certainlymight be cause for some wonder, seeing that he would usually accompanyhis nursings with such extraordinarily guttural attempts at singing aswere far better calculated to scare any ordinary baby into temporaryconvulsions than to soothe it to rest when its slumbers had once beenbroken. And how the old man did rejoice when the little thing couldtoddle into his pantry! And no wonder that she was very ready to do so, for Harry had an inexhaustible store of plums, and bonbons, and suchlike enticements, which were always forthcoming when little missgladdened his heart with a visit. So they were fast friends, andthoroughly understood each other. 

When, however, a son and heir was born, and there was in consequence aperfect delirium of bell-ringing in the village church-tower, Harry byno means entered heart and soul into the rejoicings. "Well, " he saidwith a sigh, "there's no help for it, I suppose. It's all right, nodoubt; but Miss Julia's my pet, and so she shall be as long as my name'sHarry. " The new infant, therefore, received none of the attention athis hands which its predecessor had enjoyed. When pressed by thehousekeeper, with an arch smile on her good-natured face, to take "baby"out for an airing, he shook his head very gravely and declined theemployment, affirming that his nursing days were over. The name also ofthe new baby was a sore subject to Harry. "`Amos, ' indeed! Well, whatnext? Who ever heard of an `Amos' in the family? You might go as farback as Noah and you'd never find one. Mr Sutterby might be a verygood gentleman, but his Christian name was none the better for that. "And, for a while, the old man's heart got more and more firmly closedagainst the young heir; while Amos, on his part, in his boyish days, made no advances towards being on friendly terms with the old servant, who yet could not help being sometimes sorry for his young master, whenhe marked how the sunshine of love and favour, which was poured outabundantly on Miss Julia, came but in cold and scattered rays to herdesolate-hearted brother. 

This kindly feeling was deepened in Harry's heart, and began to showitself in many little attentions, after the death of Mr Sutterby. Hecould not avoid seeing how the father's and mother's affections weremore and more drawn away from their little son, while he keenly feltthat the poor child had done nothing to deserve it; so in a plain andhomely way he tried to draw him out of himself, and made him as free ofhis pantry as his sister was. And when Walter came, a few years beforeMr Sutterby's death, putting Amos into almost total eclipse, Harrywould have none of this third baby. "He'd got notice enough and tospare, " he said, "and didn't want none from him. " And now a new cordwas winding itself year by year round the old butler's heart--a cordwoven by the character of the timid child he had learned to love. Hecould not but notice how Amos, while yet a boy, controlled himself whencruelly taunted or ridiculed by his younger brother; how he returnedgood for evil; and how, spite of sorrow and a wounded spirit, there waspeace on the brow and in the heart of that despised and neglected one. For he had discovered that, in his visits to his aunt, Amos had foundthe pearl of great price, and the old man's heart leapt for joy, for hehimself was a true though unpretending follower of his Saviour. 

So Harry's attachment to his young master grew stronger and stronger, and all the more so as he came to see through the more attractive butshallower character of Walter, whose praises were being constantlysounded in his ears by Mr Huntingdon. And there was one thing aboveall others which tended to deepen his attachment to Amos, which wasAmos's treatment of his sister, who was still the darling of Harry'sheart. Walter loved his sister after a fashion. He could do a generousthing on the impulse of the moment, and would conform himself to herwishes when it was not too much trouble. But as for denying himself, orputting himself out of the way to please her, it never entered into hishead. Nevertheless, any little attention on his part, spite of hisbeing so much younger than herself, was specially pleasing to Julia, whowas never so happy as when she and he could carry out by themselves somelittle scheme of private amusement. Harry noticed this, and was farfrom feeling satisfied, observing to the housekeeper that "Master Walterwas a nasty, stuck-up little monkey; and he only wondered how Miss Juliacould be so fond of him. " On the other hand, Amos always treated hissister, even from his earliest boyhood, with a courtesy andconsideration which showed that she was really precious to him. And, asshe grew up towards womanhood and he towards mature boyhood, the beautyand depth of his respectful and unselfish love made themselves felt byall who could value and understand them, and among these was Harry. Hecould appreciate, though he could not explain, the contrast between amere sentiment of affection, such as that which prompted Walter tooccasional acts of kindness to his sister which cost him nothing, andthe abiding, deep-seated principle of love in Amos which exhibiteditself in a constant thoughtful care and watchfulness to promote thehappiness of its object, his beloved sister. 

So Harry's heart warmed towards his young master more and more, especially when he could not help noticing that, while Amos neverrelaxed his endeavours to make his sister happy, she on her part eitherresented his kindness, or at the best took it as a matter of course, preferring--and not caring to conceal her preference--a smile or word ortwo from Walter to the most patient and self-denying study of her tastesand wishes on the part of her elder brother. The old man grieved overthis conduct in his darling Miss Julia, and gave her a hint on thesubject in his own simple way, which to his surprise and mortificationshe resented most bitterly, and visited her displeasure also on Amos bycarefully avoiding him as much as possible, and being speciallydemonstrative in her affection to Walter. Amos of course felt itdeeply, but it made no alteration in his own watchful love to hissister. As for Harry, all he could do was to wait in hopes of brightertimes, and to console himself for his young mistress's coldness bytaking every opportunity of promoting the happiness and winning thefuller confidence of the brother whom she so cruelly despised. 

But then came the crash; and this well-nigh broke the faithful oldservant's heart. She whom he still loved as though she were his own, following her own unrestrained fancies, left her father's house to uniteherself to a heartless adventurer before she had reached full womanhood, and thus closed the door of her old home against her. Then followed afrightful blank. An allusion by the old butler to "Miss Julia, " whenthe squire and he were alone together, was met by a burst of violence onhis master's part, and a threat that Harry must leave if he ever againmentioned his old favourite's name to her father. So his lips wereclosed, but not his heart; for he waited, watched, and prayed for bettertimes, even after a still heavier cloud had gathered over the family inthe removal of poor Mrs Huntingdon, and all the love he had to sparewas given to his poor desolate young master, whose spirit had beencrushed to the very dust by the sad withdrawal of his mother and sisterfrom his earthly home. 

Walter too was, of course, grieved at the loss of his sister and mother, but the blow was far lighter to him than to his brother, partly from hisbeing of a more lively and elastic temperament, and partly because hedid not, being so young a boy when the sad events took place, so fullyunderstand as did his elder brother the shame and disgrace which hungover the family through his sister's heartless and selfish conduct. Hisaunt soon came to supply his mother's place, and completely won theimpulsive boy's heart by her untiring and thoughtful affection. And onelesson he was learning from her, which was at first the strangest andhardest of lessons to one brought up as he had been, and that was, torespect the feelings and appreciate, though by very slow degrees, thecharacter of his brother. His own superiority to Amos he had hithertotaken as a matter of course and beyond dispute. Everybody allowed it, except perhaps old Harry; but that, in Walter's eyes, was nothing. Amoswas the eldest son, and heir to the family estate, and therefore the oldbutler took to him naturally, and would have done so if he had been acow without any brains instead of a human being. So said Walter, andwas quite content that a poor, ignorant fellow like Harry, who couldhave no knowledge or understanding of character, should set his regardson the elder son, and not notice the otherwise universally acknowledgedbodily and intellectual superiority of his more worthy self. No wonder, then, that pity more than love was the abiding feeling in Walter's hearttowards his less popular and less outwardly attractive brother. And itwas a very strange discovery, and as unwelcome as strange, which hisaunt was now leading him gradually to make spite of himself, that inreal sterling excellence and beauty of character the weight, which hehad hitherto considered to lie wholly in his own scale, was in truth tobe found in the opposite scale on his brother's side of the balance. Very slowly and reluctantly indeed was he brought to admit this at all, and, even when he was constrained to do so, he by no means surrenderedat discretion to his aunt's view of the matter, but fought against itmost vigorously, even when his conscience reproved him most loudly. Andthus it was that a day or two after his conversation with MissHuntingdon on the moral courage exhibited by Colonel Gardiner, he wasrather glad of an opportunity that presented itself of exhibiting hisbrother in an unamiable light, and "trotting him out with his shabby oldhorsecloth on, " as he expressed it, for the amusement of himself andfriends. It was on a summer evening, and very hot, so that MissHuntingdon, her two nephews, and two young men, friends of Walter, wereenjoying tea and strawberries in a large summer-house which faced asloping lawn enamelled with flower-beds glowing with masses of richlytinted flowers. Mr Huntingdon was not with them, as this was Benchday, and he was dining after business hours with a brother magistrate. Walter, full of life and spirits, rattled away to his heart's content, laughing boisterously at his own jokes, which he poured forth the morecontinuously because he saw that Amos was more than usually indisposedto merriment. 

"By-the-by, Tom, " he said suddenly to one of his companions, "what aboutthe boat-race? When is it to come off?"

"In September, " replied his friend. "But we are in a little difficulty. You know Sir James has lent us the Park for the occasion, and a capitalthing it will be; for we can make a good two miles of it by rowing roundthe ornamental water twice. It is to be a four-oared match; fourCambridge against four Oxford men, old or young, it doesn't matter. Itis to be part of the fun on the coming of age of Sir James's eldest son. I rather think he was born on the eighth. Young James is a Cambridgeman and a capital oar, and I'm of the same college, and so is Harrisonhere, as you know, and we shall have no difficulty in finding a fourth;but we are rather puzzled about the Oxford men. We can calculate uponthree, but don't know where to look for the fourth. I wish, Walter, you'd been old enough, and a member of the university. "

"Ay, Tom, I wish I had been. But, by-the-by, there's no difficultyafter all. Here's Amos, an Oxford man, and a very good oar too--he'sjust the very man you want. "

It was quite true, as Walter said, that Amos had been a good rower atthe university. Rowing was one of the few amusements in which he hadindulged himself, but he had never joined a racing boat though oftensolicited to do so. 

"What do you say, Amos?" asked his young companion. "Will you join us, and make up the Oxford four complete? We shall be really much obligedif you will; and I'm sure you'll enjoy it. "

"Thank you, " replied Amos; "it's very kind of you to ask me, I'm sure. I should have liked it had I been able to undertake it, but I am sorryto say that it cannot be. "

"Cannot be!" exclaimed Walter. "Why, what's to hinder you?"

"I cannot spare the time just now, " said his brother quietly. 

"Not spare the time!--not spare half-an-hour one fine afternoon inSeptember! Dear me! you must be oppressed with business. What is it?It isn't farming, I know. Is it legal business? Have you got so manyappointments with the Lord Chancellor that he can't spare you even forone day?"

"It will not be only for one day, " replied Amos quietly. "If the raceis to be a real trial of skill and strength we must train for it, andhave many practices, and I cannot promise to find time for these. "

"Oh, nonsense! Why not? You've nothing to do. "

"I have something to do, Walter, and something too that I cannot give upfor these practisings. "

"What! I suppose you think such vanities as these waste of precioustime. "

"I never said nor thought so, Walter; but I have a work in hand whichwill prevent my having the pleasure of taking a part in this race, forit really would have been a pleasure to me. "

"Ah! it must be a precious important work, no doubt, " said his brothersatirically. "Just tell us what it is, and we shall be able to judge. "

Amos made no reply to these last words, but turned first very red andthen very pale. 

"Humph!" said Walter; "I guess what it is. It's a new scheme for payingoff the national debt, by turning radishes into sovereigns and cabbage-leaves into bank-notes; and it'll take a deal of time and pains to doit. " He laughed furiously at his own wit, but, to his mortification, helaughed alone. There was a rather painful silence, which was broken bythe gentle voice of Miss Huntingdon. 

"I think, dear Walter, " she said, "that you are a little hard on yourbrother. Surely he may have an important work on hand without beingengaged in such a hopeless task as attempting to turn radishes intosovereigns and cabbage-leaves into bank-notes. And does it follow thathe despises your boat-race because he prefers duty to pleasure?"

"Ah! that's just it, " cried Walter, in a tone of mingled excitement anddispleasure. "Who's to know that it _is_ duty? I think one duty isvery plain, and I should have thought you would have agreed with mehere, and that is to give up your own way and pleasure sometimes, whenby doing so you may help to make other people happy. "

"I quite agree with you in that, Walter, " said his aunt. "It may be andoften does become a duty to surrender our own pleasure, but never surelyto surrender our duty. "

"True, aunt, if it's really duty; but some people's duty means merelytheir own fancy, and it's very convenient to call _that_ duty when youdon't want to be obliging. "

"It may be so, Walter; but, on the other hand, if we have seen causeeven to impose upon ourselves something as a duty, we are bound to carryit out, although others may not see it to be a duty and may call itfancy; and certainly we should at least respect those who thus followwhat they firmly believe they _ought_ to do, even though we cannotexactly understand or agree with their views of duty. So you must bearwith Amos; for I am certain that he would not say `No' to you about therace if he were not persuaded that duty stands in the way of his takinga part in it. "

"Ah, well! happy Amos to have such a champion, " cried Walter, laughing, for he had now recovered his good-humour. "I suppose you are right, andI must allow brother Amos to have his duty and his mystery all tohimself. But it's odd, and that's all I can say about it. Such short-sighted mortals as I am can't see those duties which are up in theclouds, but only those which lie straight before our eyes. "

"And yet, Walter, there may be the truest and noblest heroism insacrificing everything to these self-imposed duties, which _you_ callduties up in the clouds. "

"O aunt, aunt!" exclaimed Walter, laughing, "are you going to be downupon me again about moral courage? You have not crossed your hands thistime, and yet I daresay it will do us all good, my friends here as wellas myself, to have a lesson on moral courage from you; so listen all tomy dear aunt. She is teaching me moral courage by examples. Who isyour hero, dear auntie, this time?"

"Shall I go on?" said Miss Huntingdon, looking round on her hearers;then seeing an expression of interest on every countenance, shecontinued, "Well, I will, if you wish it. My hero to-day is JohnHoward. "

"Not a soldier this time, Aunt Kate. "

"Not in your sense, Walter, but one of the truest and bravest in mine. "

"Pray, then, let us hear all about his exploits, dear aunt. "

"You shall, Walter. His exploits just consisted in this, that heimposed a great duty on himself as the one object of his life, and neverlet anything turn him from it, though obstacles met him in everydirection such as nothing but the highest sense of duty could havenerved him to break through. In the first place, he was of a weaklyconstitution, and might therefore well have excused himself from anyunnecessary labours, and might have indulged in luxuries which mightalmost have been considered as necessaries to one whose appetite was notstrong. He could well have afforded such innocent indulgence, for hewas a man of good fortune. He was, however, remarkable for hisabstemious habits; and having been led, when high sheriff of his county, to look into the state of Bedford jail, he was so shocked with themiserable condition of the prisoners and their being crowded together ina place filthy, damp, and ill-ventilated, that he set himself to make atour of inspection of all the county jails in England, and sooncompleted it, and was examined before the House of Commons on the stateof our prisons. And here he had to suffer from that misrepresentationand misunderstanding which are too often the lot of those who have setthemselves to some great and noble work. It seemed so extraordinary tosome members of Parliament that a gentleman, out of pure benevolence, should devote himself to such a painful work, and run the risk ofcontagion, that they could hardly understand it; and one gentleman asked`at whose expense he travelled, '--a question which Howard could scarcelyanswer without some indignant emotion. You see, they could notappreciate such exalted heroism; and surely it required no little moralcourage to persevere. But he did persevere, and his work grew upon him. 

"From England he went abroad, and visited the prisons on the Continent, devoting his time and fortune to the great work of discovering, and, asfar as might be, remedying, the abuses he found in these sad places ofmisery and often cruelty; and though he was introduced to the noble andthe great wherever he went, he paid no visits of mere ceremony, butspoke out most fearlessly, even to the most exalted in rank, about theabuses he found in the prisons under their control. He had set himselfone great work to do, and he did it. Suffering, toil, hardship wereendured without a murmur. Ah! was not this true heroism?

"And now I come to a point which I want you, dear Walter, specially tonotice. Howard might have spent a portion at least of his time whenabroad in visiting the beautiful picture-galleries and other works ofart in the towns to which his great work led him, but he never sufferedhimself to do so. He would not even read a newspaper, lest it shoulddivert his thoughts from the one great purpose he had in view. I am notsaying for a moment that he would have been wrong to indulge himselfwith relaxation in the shape of sight-seeing and reading the news; butsurely when he made everything bend to his one grand self-imposed duty, we are constrained to admire and not to blame, far less to ridicule, hismagnificent heroism. Yes; he never swerved, he never drew back; and, best of all, he did his work as a humble and earnest Christian, carryingit on by that strength and wisdom which he sought and obtained byprayer. 

"I cannot give you a better summing up of my hero's character than inthe words of the great Edmund Burke. I have them here. " Saying whichshe opened a small manuscript book containing extracts from variousauthors in her own handwriting, which she kept in her work-basket, andread as follows:--"`He has visited all Europe, not to survey thesumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples; not to makeaccurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form ascale of the curiosities of ancient art; not to collect medals, nor tocollate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons, and toplunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrowand pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, andcontempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, tovisit the forsaken, and to compare the distresses of men in allcountries. His plan is original, and it is as full of genius as it isof humanity. It was a voyage of discovery--a circumnavigation, ofcharity. ' Such was Burke's true estimate of my hero. And surely neverwas a nobler heroism--it was so pure, so unselfish; for when they wouldhave erected a monument to him in his lifetime, and had gathered largesums for that purpose during his absence abroad, he at once put a stopto the project on his return home. --Am I wrong, dear Walter, in takingJohn Howard for one of my special moral heroes?"

"Not a bit of it, dear aunt. I confess myself beaten; I give in; I handover the laurel crown to Amos: for I see that Howard's greatness ofcharacter was shown especially in this, that he imposed upon himself awork which he might have left undone without blame, and carried it outthrough thick and thin as a matter of duty. Bravo, Howard! and bravo, Amos, with your duty-work!--three cheers for you both! and one cheermore for Aunt Kate and moral courage. " So saying, with a low bow, halfin fun and half in earnest, to Miss Huntingdon and his brother, with arequest to the latter to learn the Canadian boat-song, "Row, Brothers, Row, " at his earliest convenience, he left the summer-house, taking histwo friends with him. 

Amos, who had been silent during the latter part of the discussion, lingered behind for a moment, and rising from his seat, took his aunt'shand between his own, pressing it warmly as he said, in a voice subduedand trembling with emotion, --"Thank you, dearest aunt; I see you partlyunderstand me now. Some day, I hope, you may understand me more fully. "

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

HARRY IN THE SECRET. 

A week or more had passed since the conversation in the summer-house, and all the family were seated at luncheon in the dining-room ofFlixworth Manor, when a shabby and dirty-looking note was handed to Amosby the butler. Having hastily read it, Amos exclaimed in an agitatedvoice, "Who brought this? where is he?"

"It's no one as I ever seed afore, " replied Harry. "He said there wasno answer, but I was to take it in straight; and I doubt he's gone nowfar enough away, for he was nothing but a rough-looking lad, and he ranoff when he had given me the note as fast as his legs would carry him. "

"Nothing amiss, I hope?" said Miss Huntingdon kindly. 

"I hope not, " replied her nephew. He was evidently, however, greatlytroubled and confused, and looked nervously towards his father, whoseattention at the time was being given to a noble-looking dog which wasreceiving a piece of meat from his hand. 

"What's up now?" cried Walter, who, although he was learning to treathis brother with more respect and consideration, was still rather on thelook-out for opportunities to play off his fun upon him. "Why, surelythere's something amiss. What's the good, Amos, of putting a spoonfulof salt into your gooseberry tart?"

Mr Huntingdon now looked round and stared at his elder son, who had bythis time partly recovered his self-possession. "Nothing serious, myboy, I hope?" he said. 

"I hope not, dear father. It's only about a little child that I take aninterest in; he seems to have got away from home, and his friends can'tfind him. "

"Is it one of my tenants' children?"

"No; it's a child that lives in a cottage on the Gavelby estate. Wehave struck up a friendship. I ride up there sometimes, so they havesent to me about him; and I will ride over after luncheon and see whatcan be done. "

Nothing more passed on the subject during the meal; but MissHuntingdon's watchful care of her nephew made her notice the deep linesof anxiety which had gathered on the forehead of Amos, and her heartached for him, for she was sure that he was burdened with someunexpected trouble connected with the work he had set himself toaccomplish. Dinner-time came, but Amos did not make his appearance. Ten o'clock struck, but he still lingered. Never before had he beenabsent for a night except when at school or college, or on a visit tosome friend; for his habits were most regular, and he always rose andretired to rest early, his custom in this respect having been often thesubject of remark and merriment to Walter, who would say to his friendsthat, "although Amos would never join in a lark, he had no objection torise with one; nor to lie down with a lamb, though he hadn't it in himto skip like one. " So when the family met next morning at breakfast, and nothing had been seen or heard of Amos, there was a shade of anxietyon every one's face. 

"Where can the boy have been?" exclaimed Mr Huntingdon; "we never knewhim go off like this before. --Hasn't he sent any message of any kind, Harry?"

"Not a word, sir, as far as I know. "

"What's best to be done, then?--What do you say, Kate?" asked thesquire. 

"Perhaps Walter can make inquiries, " suggested his sister. 

"Well, " replied her nephew, "I wouldn't mind, but really I don't knowwhere to look exactly. I may be riding about all day, for he's goneafter the missing child, I suppose, so it will be no use looking for himat the child's home. And, besides, I've an engagement to play lawn-tennis and go to luncheon at the Worthingtons', and I can't disappointthem. "

"Not in such a case as this?" asked his aunt reproachfully. "Can't yousend a note of apology to the Worthingtons? Suppose something serioushas happened to your brother!"

"Oh, nonsense, Aunt Kate, " cried Walter, who was not prepared to give uphis engagement of pleasure; "don't be afraid about Amos; he'll turn upall right. He's on his way home, you may depend upon it; only perhapshe has been trying to solve some wonderful problem, and has forgottenall about such commonplace things as time and space, and has fallenasleep under a hedge. "

"I will go myself, then, " said Miss Huntingdon, "and see if I can hearanything of him from the neighbours. "

"Indeed, Kate, " said her brother, "you must do nothing of the sort. Setyour mind at rest. I will go myself and make inquiries; and if the boydoes not make his appearance by luncheon time, we must take furthersteps to find him. "

"Can _I_ be of any use, sir, in the matter?" asked Harry. 

"Ah, that's just the thing!" cried Walter. "If you can spare Harry, father, Jane can wait at luncheon; and I'll just put Harry myself onwhat I think will be the right scent. "

"Well, my boy, it can be so, and you can do as you say, " replied hisfather. "I know we can trust Harry to do his best; he can take the oldmare, and we shall do very well with Jane till he comes back. "

Nothing loath, but rather gratified with the part he had to play and thetrust placed in him, the old butler set out about noon on the old mare, accompanied by Walter, who was on his way to the Worthingtons'. Harrywould have preferred managing matters in his own fashion, which wouldhave been to go on a tour of inquiry from farm to farm; but, having nochoice, he surrendered himself to the guidance and directions of Walter. So they rode on together for some miles till they came within sight ofthe cottage where Amos had been seen by his brother playing with thelittle children. 

"There, Harry, " said Walter, "you see that cottage? just you call inthere, and you will either find my brother there, if I am not mistaken, or, at any rate, you will find somebody who will tell you where to lookfor him. " Then he turned and put spurs to his horse, and was soon outof sight, leaving the old servant to jog along at his leisure to thelittle dwelling pointed out to him, the roof of which he could just seedistinctly in the distance. 

"Humph!" said Harry half out loud, as he rather reluctantly made his waytowards the cottage; "you might have gone yourself, Master Walter, Ithink, and saved an old man like me such a shaking as I've had on theold mare's back. But I suppose that `lawn tens, ' as they call it, is amighty taking thing to young people; it seems all the go now; all theyoung gents and young ladies has gone mad after it. Knocking them ballsback'ards and for'ards used to be called `fives' when I were a boy, butthey calls it `tens' now; I suppose 'cos they does everything in thesedays twice as fast as they used to do. Well, it don't matter; but if ithad been Master Amos, and t'other road about, he'd never have let`tens, ' or `twenties, ' or `fifties' stand between him and looking artera lost brother. But then people don't know Master Amos and MasterWalter as I do. Their aunt, Miss Huntingdon, does a bit, and p'rapsmaster will himself some day. "

By the time he had finished this soliloquy Harry had neared the cottage. Then he quickened his pace, and having reached the little garden gate, hung his horse's bridle over a rail, with the full knowledge that theanimal would be well content to stand at ease an unlimited time whereshe was left. Then he made his way up to the cottage door and knocked. His summons was immediately answered by a respectably dressed middle-aged woman, who opened the door somewhat slowly and cautiously, and thenasked him civilly what was his business with her. "Well, if you please, ma'am, " said the butler, "I'm just come to know if you can tell meanything about my young master, Mr Amos. He ought to have come homelast night, and none of us has set eyes on him up to the time when Ileft home, about an hour since. "

The person whom he addressed was evidently in a difficulty what toanswer. She hesitated, and looked this way and that, still holding thedoor ajar, but not inviting Harry into the house. The old man waited afew moments, and then he said, "If you please, ma'am, am I to understandas you don't know nothing about my young master, Mr Amos, and wherehe's gone?"

Still the other made no reply, but only looked more and more uneasy. Itwas quite clear to Harry now that she could give him the information hewanted, if only she were willing to do so. He waited therefore anotherminute, and then said, "You've no cause, ma'am, to fear as I shall getMaster Amos into trouble by anything you may tell me. I love him toowell for that; and I can be as close as wax when I like. You may trustme, ma'am, and he'd tell you the same if he was here. "

"And what may your name be, friend?" asked the woman. 

"Well, " he replied, "the quality calls me `Harry;' but every one elsecalls me Mr Frazer, --at least when they behaves as they ought to do. Iam butler at Flixworth Manor, that's Mr Amos Huntingdon's home; andI've been in the family's service more nor fifty years come nextChristmas, so it ain't likely as I'd wish to do any on 'em any harm. "

"Well, Mr Frazer, " said the woman, opening the door, "come in then; thefact is, I am almost as puzzled to know where Mr Amos is as you are. Ihave been expecting him all the morning, and he may be here any minute. But pray come in and wait a bit. "

Accepting the invitation, Harry stepped into a neat little parlour, prettily but not expensively furnished. Over the chimney-piece was alarge drawing in water-colours of Flixworth Manor-house, and, on eitherside of this, photographs of Mr and Mrs Huntingdon. What could itmean? But for Harry every other thought was swallowed up in a moment byhis attention being called to a little girl, about four years of age, who stole into the room, and stood for a while staring at him with onefinger in her mouth, and her head drooping slightly, but not so much asto hide a pair of lustrous hazel eyes. A neat and beautifully whitepinafore was bound round her waist by a red belt, and a profusion ofglossy brown ringlets fell upon her shoulders. The old man started atthe sight as if he had been shot, and then gazed at the child with openmouth and raised eyebrows, till the little thing shrank back to the sideof the woman who had opened the door, and hid her little face in herapron. "It's herself, her very own self, " said Harry half out loud, andwith quivering voice; "tell me, ma'am, oh, pray tell me what's thischild's name!"

"Well, Mr Frazer, " replied his companion, though evidently with somehesitation, "I understand that I may trust you. This dear child's namesare Julia Mary, and I am her nurse, employed by Mr Amos to look afterher for him. "

"I begin to see it all now, " said Harry half to himself. "Don't troubleyourself, ma'am; I don't need to ask no more questions. I don't wantany one to tell me who Miss Julia's mother is; there can be no doubtabout that, they're as like as two peas; and I begin to see a bit whatMr Amos has been a-doing. God bless his dear, unselfish heart! Comehere to me, my child, " he added with a pleasant smile. The little Julialooked hard at him from behind the shelter of her nurse's gown for amoment, but soon lost all fear, for there was something attractive toher in the old man's snow-white hair and venerable face, as, surely, there is commonly a sweet sympathy between the guileless childhood ofinfancy and the holy childhood of God--fearing old age. So she shylydrew towards him, and let him place her on his knee; and then she lookedup wonderingly at him, as his tears fell fast on her brown hair, and hisvoice was choked with sobs. "Yes, " he said, "my precious Miss Julia, you're the very image of what your blessed mother was at your age. I'vehad her like this on my knee scores of times. Ah! well, perhaps abrighter day's coming for us all. "

We must now leave the old man happy over his gentle charge, and go backto the previous day when Amos, at luncheon time, received the littlenote which so greatly disturbed him. That note was as follows:--

"Respected Sir, --About ten o'clock this morning, as Master George andMiss Mary were playing in the garden, a strange man looked over thehedge and called Master George by name. He held out something to him inhis hand, which Master George went out of the gate to look at. Then theman took him up into his arms, whispered something into his ear, andwalked away with him. I was in the house at the time, and was told thisby Miss Mary. What am I to do? Please, sir, do come over at once ifyou can. --Your obedient servant, Sarah Williams. "

Amos, as we have seen, left home after luncheon, and did not return. Hemade his way as quickly as he could to the little cottage, and foundMrs Williams in great distress. The poor little girl also was cryingfor her brother, declaring that a wicked man had come and stolen himaway. What was to be done? The cottage where the nurse and childrendwelt together was in rather a retired situation, the nearest house toit being a farm-house, which, though only a few hundred yards distant, was built in a hollow, so that what was going on outside the cottagewould not be visible to persons about the farm premises. Mrs Williamswas the wife of a respectable farm labourer, of better education andmore intelligence than the generality of his class. They had nochildren of their own, so that Mrs Williams, who was a truly godlywoman, was glad to give a home for a time and a motherly care to the twolittle ones committed to her charge by Amos. The husband was, ofcourse, absent from home during the working hours, so that his wifecould not call him to her help when she missed the little boy; indeed, on the day of her loss her husband had gone with his master, the farmer, to the neighbouring market-town, some six miles off, so that she couldhave no assistance from him in the search for the missing child tilllate in the evening. As far as Amos could gather from the little girl'sdescription, the man who had stolen away her brother was tall, had along beard, and very black eyes. He was not on horseback, and there wasno one else with him. But this was very meagre information at the beston which to build for tracking the fugitives. So Amos called MrsWilliams into the little parlour, and spread the matter out in prayerbefore God, whose "eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and thegood. " Then wishing the nurse good-bye, with a heart less burdened thanbefore, but still anxious, he remounted his pony, and turned him in thedirection of the neighbouring farm-yard. 

Having ascertained at the farm-house that no one had seen a man with aboy in his arms or walking by him pass that way, he proceeded down along and not much frequented grassy lane at a jog-trot, but with smallexpectation of finding any clew that might guide him to the discovery ofthe lost child. He had ridden on thus about half a mile, when he pausedat a place where another grassy lane crossed at right angles the onedown which he had been riding. It was a lonely spot, but yet was athoroughfare from which the roads diverged to one or two large villages, and led in one direction ultimately to the market-town. Close to theditch opposite the road down which Amos had come was a white finger-post, informing those who were capable of deciphering its blearedinscriptions whither they were going or might go. Amos hesitated; hehad never been on this exact spot before, and he therefore rode close upto the sign-post to read the names, which were illegible at a littledistance off. To his great surprise, and even dismay, he noticed, dangling from one of the post's outstretched wooden arms, a silkhandkerchief of a rather marked pattern. Could it really be? Yes, hecould not doubt it; it belonged to little George: it was a present tothe child from himself only a few days before. Amos's blood ran cold atthe sight. Could any one in the shape of humanity have had the heart tolay violent hands on the poor boy? There was no telling. He scarcedared to look towards the ditch lest he should see the lifeless bodythere. But perhaps a gipsy had got hold of the child, and stripped himfor his clothes: such things used to be done formerly. But, then, whyhang the silk handkerchief in such a conspicuous place? for it could nothave got there by accident, nor been blown there, for it had beenmanifestly fastened and suspended there by human fingers. Trembling inevery limb, Amos unfastened the handkerchief from the post. There wassomething stiff inside it. He unfolded it slowly; an envelope discloseditself. It was directed in pencil. The direction was, "AmosHuntingdon, Esq. Please forward without delay. "

Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope andread the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat andthoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:--

"You are doubtless anxious to know what has become of the little boyGeorge. Come _alone_ to-morrow morning to the old oak in Brendon wood, and you shall be duly informed. Mind, come _alone_: if you attempt tobring one or more with you, it will be simply lost labour, for thenthere will be no one to meet you. You have nothing to fear as to anyharm to your own person, or interference with your liberty. "

There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amoswas sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Ofcourse it was plain that the writer could put him in the way ofrecovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood?and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if hedid not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child mightbe lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. Thenearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; andshould he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood withsuccess, it would be difficult for him to return home the same eveningby any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart toabandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to thelittle town of Redbury. 

As he was giving up his pony to the care of the hostler at theWheatsheaf, the principal inn in the place, he observed a man--tall, with long beard, and very dark eyes--stepping down into the inn-yard, who, as soon as he saw Amos, immediately retreated into the house. HadAmos seen him before? Never, as far as he knew; and yet a strangesuspicion came over him that this was the man who had enticed littleGeorge away, and was also the writer of the pencilled letter. Still, itmight not be so; he had no proof of it; and how was he to ascertain ifit was the case or no? He lingered about the yard for a time, but thestranger did not again make his appearance; so he strolled out into thetown, and ascertained that Brendon wood was about two miles fromRedbury, and had an old oak in the centre of it. Turning matters overin his mind, he at last came to the not very comfortable conclusionthat, as the evening was now far advanced, his best course was to put upfor the night in the little town, and betake himself to the wood at anearly hour next day. Grieved as he was to give his friends at homeanxiety by not returning that night, he felt that, if his object was tobe attained, he had better remain where he was; and he was sure that hisaunt would believe that he would not absent himself without good reason, and would do her best to allay in his father any undue anxiety on hisaccount. Having come to this conclusion, he returned to the Wheatsheafand secured a bed, and then passed the rest of the evening in thecoffee-room, watching very carefully to see if he could catch anywhereanother glimpse of the mysterious stranger, but to no purpose. 

After a restless and anxious night he rose early; and, after commendinghimself and his cause to God in earnest prayer, set off, after a hastybreakfast, in the direction given him as leading to the place ofappointment. It was a glorious summer day; and as he rode briskly alongthe country road, out of which he soon turned into a long lane skirtedon either side by noble trees, he could not help sighing to think howman's sin had brought discord and deformity into a world which mightotherwise have been so full of beauty. The wood soon appeared in sight, and a lonely as well as lovely spot it was. Many bridle-roadsintersected it; he chose one which seemed to lead into the centre, andin a short time the great oak was visible. There was no mistaking thevenerable forest giant, with its rugged fantastic limbs towering highabove the neighbouring trees. So he made straight for it at once. Amoswas no coward, though naturally of a timid disposition; for he hadpatiently acquired habits of self-control, learned partly in the schoolof chastisement, and partly in the school of self-discipline. And yetit was not without a feeling of shrinking and misgiving that he saw aman approaching the oak from a path opposite to that by which he himselfhad come. Trees, mingled with thick brushwood, covered the ground onall sides, except where the roads and bridle-paths ran, and not acreature had he met before since he turned out of the main road. Littletime, however, was allowed him for further reflection; in a minute morehe was joined by the other traveller. A single glance was sufficient tosatisfy him that he had before him the same man who had attracted hisattention the evening before at the Wheatsheaf. 

The stranger was, as has been said, tall, and wore a long beard. On thepresent occasion he was wrapped in an ample cloak, and had on his head ahigh-crowned hat encircled with a feather. Amos could not make himout;--what was he? As they came close up to one another, the strangersaluted Amos with an air of mingled ease and affectation, and motionedhim to a seat when he had dismounted from his pony. So Amos, stillholding Prince's bridle in his hand, placed himself on a grassy moundnear the base of the old oak, while the other seated himself a few pacesfrom him. Neither spoke for a little while; then the stranger broke thesilence. His voice was not, in its natural tones, otherwise thanpleasing; but there was an assumption in his manner of speaking and aspice of sarcastic swagger which grated very painfully on thesensibilities of his companion. However, it was pretty evident that thestranger had no particular care to spare the feelings of the person whomhe was addressing. 

"I may as well explain at once, Mr Huntingdon, " he began, "how I cameto communicate with you in a way somewhat uncommon. The fact is, that Ihave reasons for not wishing to make myself known more than I can helpto the good people in these parts. Now, had I sent you my note by thehand of any messenger, this would have drawn attention to myself, andmight have led to inquiries about me which are not just now convenient. I was quite sure that yourself, or some one belonging to you, would besearching up and down the lanes for the little boy, and that his silkhandkerchief, placed where I put it, would attract notice, and the notetied up in it be conveyed to yourself without my appearing personally onthe scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; andno one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This isas it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, doyou guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, beforeyesterday evening. "

"I do not know your name, " replied Amos sadly; "but I cannot say that Ihave no suspicion as to who you are. "

"Exactly so, " replied the other; "I am, in fact, none other than yourbrother-in-law, or, if you like it better, your sister Julia's husband. "

"I have feared so, " replied Amos. 

"Feared!" exclaimed his companion in a tone of displeasure. "Well, beit so. I am aware that our marriage was not to the taste of theHuntingdons, so we have kept out of the way of the family as much aspossible; and, indeed, I believe that your father has never even knownthe name of his daughter's husband, but simply the fact of hermarriage. "

"I believe so, " said Amos; "at any rate, all that has been known by thefamily generally has been that she married"--here he hesitated; but theother immediately added, --

"Beneath her, you would say. Be it so, again. Well, you may as wellknow my name yourself, at any rate, for convenience' sake. It is, atyour service, Orlando Vivian. Shall I go on?"

"If you please. "

"You are aware, then, of course, that I deserted your sister, as it iscalled, for a time; the fact being, that we discovered after marriagethat our tastes and habits of thought were very dissimilar, and that weshould be happier apart, at least for a season. And in the meantime youstepped in, and have acted very nobly, I must say, in taking charge ofmy two little children, for which I must tender you my best thanks. "

There was a brief pause, and then Amos inquired anxiously, "Is it yourintention to take the children from me?"

"Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, atpresent, unless you yourself wish it. "

"And the boy?" asked Amos. 

"Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him, " was the reply. "Itmay be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my ownprofession. "

"And what may that profession be?" asked the other. 

"The stage, " was the reply. 

"What!" exclaimed Amos in a tone of horror, "bring up the poor child tobe an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!"

"And if so, Mr Huntingdon, " said the other sternly and bitterly, andwith his dark eyes glaring fiercely, "I suppose I, as his father, have aright to bring him up as I please. The father's profession is, Iimagine, notwithstanding your disparaging remarks, good enough for theson. "

Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then helooked his companion steadily in the face, and said, "And is there noother course open?"

"Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, withoutany more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. Thefact is, I want money, and--not an uncommon thing in this not overagreeable or accommodating world--don't know where to get it. I have, therefore, just this to say, --if you will pledge me your word to send mea cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, willat once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as aman of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. Youmay think what you please of me, but such is my proposal. "

These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self-possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazingeffrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needyadventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and haddeserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found outthat Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present, had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, asa way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also prettyclear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers ofjustice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach ofthe law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hangingup the little boy's handkerchief on the way-post, being sure thatpersons would be out immediately in all directions searching for thechild, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief withthe letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as theyoung man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nursediscovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search forthe missing child; and thus the writer's purpose would be answeredwithout his having given any clew by which himself could be discoveredand brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos. And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish andunscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be doneby appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could actdeliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephewin his father's hands, to be brought up to the stage--or, in otherwords, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thoughtwas not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice. 

While these things were passing through his mind, his companion lookedabout him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at hisfeet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he brokesilence. "Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?" he asked. "Am I to keeplittle George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know theconditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the troubleto meet you here if I had any thoughts of changing my mind. "

Amos looked sadly and kindly at him, and then said, "And can you really, Mr Vivian, justify this conduct of yours to yourself? Can you feelreally happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let mepersuade you--for my poor sister's sake, for your own sake--to leaveyour present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only pathwhich God can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could--"

But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fiercemalignant anger glaring from his eyes. "Stop, stop, Mr Huntingdon!enough of that. We are not come here for a preaching or a prayer-meeting. The die has long since been cast, and the Rubicon crossed. You can take your course; I will take mine. If you have nothing moreagreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leavematters as they are. "

"No, " said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; "it shall not be so. I promisethat you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placedlittle George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge yourword, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested. "

"Exactly so, " replied the other; "and now, as a little matter ofbusiness, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to `JohnSmith or Bearer, '--that, certainly, will tell no tales. "

"And where shall I send it to meet you? to what address?"

"To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spotwhere the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; itis about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the placewell. I will be there at five o'clock to-morrow morning, before thegeneral world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or sendsome trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say thatany attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasionwould be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further, should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon myremoving _both_ my children from your cottage at the earliestopportunity. "

"I understand you, " said Amos, "and will send my father's old butler totake you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old manwill ask no questions; he will be satisfied to do just what I tell him, neither more nor less. You will easily recognise him, as he has snowy-white hair, and he will be riding on this pony of mine. "

"So far so good, " said the other; "I have no doubt you will keep yourword. And now as to the boy. You will find him at the finger-post onwhich his silk handkerchief was tied, at two o'clock this afternoon;that is to say, if you come alone, and are there punctually. " Then herose, and, stretching himself to his full height, saluted Amos with abow of exaggerated ceremoniousness, and, turning on his heel, was soonhidden from view by the trees of the wood. 

Sadly and slowly Amos made his way back to the market-town, histhoughts, as he rode along, being far from pleasant companions. Whatwas to be the end of all this? Could he have done differently? No. Hewas satisfied that duty plainly called him to the sacrifice which he hadmade. He would have reproached himself bitterly had he lost theopportunity of recovering his little nephew from such a father. He hadno doubt, then, taken one right step; the next he must leave to the sameheavenly guidance which never had misled nor could mislead him. Sohaving waited in the town till he had refreshed himself with a mid-daymeal, he made his way back along the roads he had travelled the daybefore, and in due time arrived in sight of the finger-post, and of thechild who was sitting alone beneath it, his little head buried in hislap, till, roused by the sound of the pony's feet, he looked up, andwith a joyful cry ran to meet his uncle. Another moment, and Amos hadsprung from his saddle and was clasping the sobbing, laughing child tohis heart. 

"O dear, dear Uncle Amos!" cried the little boy; "how good it is of Godto send you for me. Oh, don't let the tall, ugly, cruel man take meaway again. "

"Not if I can help it, dear child, " said his uncle. "There now, jumpup, Georgie, " he added; "we shall soon be at home again. "

As he was in the act of remounting, having placed the child on the frontof the saddle, he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind thepost, and that he saw the glancing of a dark body through the treesbeyond the hedge. However, that mattered not; in a very little time, having put his pony to a brisk canter, he reached the cottage, andreceived a hearty welcome from the nurse, and also from old Harry, whosepresence at the house he was not surprised at, when he remembered thathis brother Walter would no doubt have directed the old man to seek forhim there. But now he began to see that Harry had become acquainted, ina measure, with his secret; for the nurse called him aside into anotherroom soon after his return, and told him of the old servant's emotion atthe sight of the little girl, and of his recognising in her the child ofhis master's daughter. 

Amos was at first considerably disturbed at the old man's having madethis discovery. Then, by degrees, the conviction grew upon him thatthis very discovery might be an important step in the direction ofcarrying out the work he had set himself to do. Surely it had beenpermitted for that end; and here was one who would become a helper tohim in the attainment of his purpose. So, after having pondered overthe matter, as he walked backwards and forwards in the little garden forsome half-hour or more, he called Harry out to him, and took him intohis confidence. 

"Harry, " he began, "can you keep a secret?"

"Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, andwho tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybodyknows, so that they're gone afore you gets 'em. But if _you've_ got asecret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it fromme. "

"Just so, Harry. Then I have a secret which I want you to keep for me--or, perhaps, I had better say that I have something which I should liketo tell you, because I believe you may be able to help me in animportant matter. And instead of binding you to keep my secret, I shalljust leave it to your own good sense to say nothing about the mattertill the right time comes; and I am sure, when you know all, you willhave no wish to make my business a subject of conversation in thefamily, nor of idle gossip out of it. "

"You're right there, sir, " was the old butler's hearty reply; "you maytrust me. I've too much respect for the family to go about like asieve, shaking such things as I've a notion you're a-going to speak tome about all up and down the country, for every idle man, woman, andchild to be wagging their tongues about them. "

"Well then, Harry, " continued his young master, "I shall count upon yourdiscretion as to silence, and on your help, where you can be of use tome. "

"They're both at your service, Mr Amos. "

"Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I needhardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You willremember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretlya man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father wascut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home againstMiss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him norexcusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knewtill to-day who or what my poor sister's husband was. I never daredmention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had toleave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on myheart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again. I know it can be done, and I believe, with God's help, it will be done. I have found out to-day that my poor sister's husband is an actor, evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him fromone place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before thechildren were old enough to know him as their father; and about a yearago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserablelodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helpedher. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of herhusband's stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to freeherself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from wanttill her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have hertwo children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and whowould soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother asshe then was, and with such people about her as friends oracquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them underthe charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and sincethen I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord wouldguide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at atime. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the childrenenticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning somemiles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took himaway that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met thismorning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to sendhim a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then hesaid he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That Iwould not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me backthe little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddlewith either of the children again. And now I want you to take the moneyfor me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above theManor-house at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him acheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help inthe matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?--they are blackenough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker. "

The old man, who had listened with breathless interest, now stood stilland looked his young master steadily in the face, while two or three bigtears rolled down his cheeks. 

"And so you've been a-sacrificing yourself, Master Amos, for your sisterand her dear children, " he said. "I see it all; but shouldn't I justlike to have fast hold of that rascal's neck with one hand, and a goodstout horsewhip in the other. But I suppose it's no use wishing forsuch things. Well, I'm your man, sir, as far as I can be of anyservice. But as for him and his promises, what are they worth? Why, he'll be just squeezing you as dry as an old sponge as has been lyingfor a month in a dust-pan. He'll never keep his word, not he, whilethere's a penny to be got out of you. And yet, I suppose, you couldn'thave done different for the sake of the poor children, bless theirlittle hearts. And I'm to take the money to him? Yes; and a policemanor two at the same time would be best. But no, I suppose not, as you'vepromised, and for the credit of the family. Well, it's a shocking badbusiness altogether; but when a man's been and tackled it as you'vedone, Master Amos, it'll come right in the end, there's no doubt of it. "

"Thank you, Harry, a thousand times, " said the other; "and I am sure youshall see the wisdom of keeping quiet on the subject for the sake of thefamily. "

"You're safe there with me, Master Amos, " was the old man's reply. 

So, when Amos and Harry returned to Flixworth Manor, the young manexplained to his father that the little child at the cottage, in whom hewas interested, had been enticed away by a stranger, and that he hadbeen unable to recover him till that morning, and had, in his search forthe child, been obliged to spend the previous night at the market-town. Mr Huntingdon, who was just then very fully occupied in planning andcarrying out some improvements on his estate, was satisfied with thisexplanation. So the subject was not further discussed in the family. On the morning after his return, Amos duly conveyed the cheque, throughHarry, to his brother-in-law. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

BEARING THE CROSS. 

Walter's good intentions and resolutions respecting his treatment of hisbrother, though sincere when he uttered them in the presence of hisaunt, were by no means strong enough to make him curb his wit or hisdispleasure when Amos did anything to annoy or thwart him. And not onlyso; but there abode in his mind a feeling of mingled jealousy andannoyance when he was constrained to admit to himself his brother'ssuperiority. If Amos had some self-imposed duty to perform, why shouldhe thrust this duty into other people's faces? Duty was a very finething in its way, no doubt, but grave Mr Duty was a very sour-tempered, troublesome old fellow when he trode on his neighbour's toes. And whyshould Amos make himself disagreeable by adopting a course of duty whichunfitted him for cordially co-operating with his younger brother in hisschemes? There was a sort of monasticism in this conduct in Walter'seyes. Here was his brother living amongst them, and yet, having takenthe vows of some self-imposed duty upon him, he was looking down uponthem all as though from some higher standing-ground. What a pity thathe did not retire into a monastery, where he could act out his vows andhis duty without troubling the noses of ordinary mortals like hisrelations with this oppressive "odour of sanctity. " So thought Walter;and he made no concealment of his feelings from Amos, whom he now beganto call "the Monk, " or "Father Gengulphus. "

Amos took it all very quietly, fully understanding that Walter was vexedwith him for pursuing a path alone, along which his brother neithercould nor would follow him at present. He was content that it should beso, and bore the cross patiently, being willing to bide his time, thankful to notice in Walter a kindlier feeling towards himself on thewhole, and convinced that, in the end, his own motives and work would beduly appreciated by that brother whom he sincerely loved. 

Miss Huntingdon saw what was going on, and rejoiced. She knew well thatthe discipline would only tend to brighten the character of her eldernephew, and felt sure that Walter would learn by degrees fully tounderstand and value his brother. Meanwhile, she was ever ready tothrow in a little oil when the waters were more than usually troubled. She knew, too, the strength of Amos's religious character, and theweakness of any higher or holier principles in Walter's heart; and shewas sure that the steady consistency of her elder nephew would graduallywin on the generous heart of his brother, spite of himself. 

Nothing special had occurred to spoil the harmony of feeling betweenAmos and Walter for some weeks after the unexpected absence of theformer from home; so that the hearts of the brothers were really beingdrawn closer together, notwithstanding natural dissimilarity ofdisposition, and the absence in Walter of that high principle and self-discipline which were moulding his elder brother's character into dailynearer conformity to Him who is the one only perfect pattern ofhumanity. 

It was while Walter was thus increasingly becoming sensible of thesuperior beauty of his brother's sterling worth and consistency, and wasat the same time secretly resenting the pressure of that nobler life'sinfluence upon him, being unprepared to follow it out himself and submitto its gentle restraints and self-denial, that a party of friends wasassembled at dinner one summer evening at the Manor-house. MrHuntingdon did not give dinner-parties now as frequently as in happierdays, and his friends and neighbours understood and appreciated thecause; but now and then he felt it to be his duty to entertain hisfriends in the old way; so, on the present occasion, some thirty guestssat down to table. 

Among those present were an old Mrs Morse, a widow lady, and herdaughter. The mother was a kind-hearted woman of the world, reasonablywell-to-do, and visited by all the good families in the neighbourhood. She was very anxious to see her daughter, who was her only child, andwas now passing out of her youthful days, well married, as the worldesteems it; so she was very glad of an opportunity of drawing out AmosHuntingdon, whom she looked upon as a worthy, weak, shy, dull young man, rather depressed by his discouraging home surroundings, and not a likelyperson to attract or seek the affections of any young lady who might befortunate enough to combine the allurements of wealth and beauty. Hemight, however, with a little judicious management, be led to look withinterest on her daughter, and would prove, no doubt, an excellenthusband, as he had means of his own, the prospect of inheriting theManor, and was exceedingly amiable, and free from habits ofextravagance. Gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of the presentopportunity to engage Amos in conversation before dinner was announced, expressing, at the same time, her regret that she had so seldom thepleasure of meeting him, and how much it would gratify herself and herdaughter if he would come over now and then and spend a quiet afternoonor evening with them. "You know, " she continued, "we are quiet people, and, if report says true, Mr Amos, your own tastes and habits are ofthe quiet sort. We should be so glad to see you in our simple way; andI think we could show you, in the beauties of our charmingneighbourhood, what would really be a pleasure to you and a refreshmentto your mind. "

Amos thanked her, and listened with due decorum to a good deal of smalltalk on the old lady's part till dinner was announced, when she socontrived that he should take her daughter down and sit between them. 

Walter was seated just opposite his brother, full of life and fun, as hethrew off his gay remarks now on this side and now on that. Suddenly helooked across at Amos, and something in the situation of his brotherbetween the old lady and her daughter struck him as so irresistiblyfunny, that it was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained himselffrom a violent outburst of laughter. And, certainly, to one easilymoved to merriment there was something singularly quaint and almostcomic in the contrast between the subdued but courteous manner of Amos, who was patiently endeavouring to make himself agreeable to his twoimmediate neighbours, and the excited frivolity of Miss Morse's runningfire of worldly commonplaces, occasionally interrupted by her mother'smore staid utterances of a similar character. 

Walter thoroughly comprehended the situation, and the reason why suchpains were being taken to draw out his brother; and his satisfaction andamusement were unbounded at the manifest failure of the effort. The oldlady caught Walter's eye, and divining somewhat of the cause of itsmerry twinkle, coloured, and was silent. Her daughter also lookeduneasily across the table, and then exclaimed, --

"Were you at Lady Gambit's garden-party last Tuesday, Mr Walter?"

"No, " he replied; "I was not there. "

"Then I can tell you that you missed a treat, " said the other. 

"Why, what was the special attraction?" he asked. 

"Oh, everything that you can imagine!"

"Well, I can imagine so many things, " said Walter laughing, "that I amquite sure her ladyship's garden could never have held them all. Pray, tell me what you yourself thought _the_ attraction _par excellence_. "

"Yes, I can do that. You know these garden-parties are generally ratherdull affairs after all. "

"What! with those numberless attractions?"

"Yes; one gets weary of them. You know, go where you will, it's thesame thing over and over again. "

"But it seems that it was not so in this case. "

"No, it was not. Her ladyship, no doubt, wished to make a littlevariety, and so she was good enough to provide us with something new. "

"Dear me!" cried Walter; "how I should have liked being there! What wasthe novelty? Was it a temperance lecture, or a Band of Hope meeting forthe benefit of the old boys and girls of sixty or seventy years of age?That must have been very lively. Or perhaps it was a Protestant addressagainst nunneries and monasteries. My brother Amos would have liked tohave had a word on that subject. "

"No, no, Mr Walter; you must not be foolish. "

"Well, do tell me. I am all anxiety to know what this attractivenovelty was. Not a conjurer? that would have been capital fun. "

"No, not a conjurer exactly. "

"Well, then, something of the sort?"

"Yes; Lady Gambit had engaged a celebrated mimic--a man, I mean, who cantake off other people to the life. "

"Indeed, " said Walter. "Perhaps it might have been as well if he hadtaken himself off. But, excuse my nonsense; what did he mimic?"

"Oh, all sorts of funny people. We all gathered round him under thegreat sycamore tree, and he kept us in peals of laughter for an hour. "

"Tell me, please, some of the characters he took off. "

"I can remember two especially. One of them was a drunkard, and theother was a hypocrite. In taking off the drunkard he called himself`Mr Adolphus Swillerly. ' You never heard anything more amusing in yourlife. "

"And the hypocrite?" asked Walter, but with less of amusement in histone. 

"Ah, I think that was better still! He assumed the character of `SimonBatter-text;' and he mimicked his preaching, and his praying, and hissighs, and his `ahmens' in a wonderful way. It really was perfect. I'mso sorry you were not there, you would have so thoroughly enjoyed it. "

There was a pause, and a general silence, for the attention of the restof the company had been drawn to the subject and the speakers. 

"Surely you don't see any harm in a little fun like that?" asked theyoung lady in some dismay, as she noticed that Walter's face and mannerwere troubled as he hesitated in his reply. 

All eyes were on him. What should he say? He turned very red; andthen, having helped himself to a glass of wine, he said, carelessly, andwith a short, merry laugh, "Harm! oh, of course not! The man meant noharm; he didn't attack individuals. All the better if he madedrunkenness and hypocrisy ridiculous. --Don't you think so, Amos?"

For a moment his brother hesitated, for every eye was directed towardshim. No one spoke; not a knife nor fork clattered. 

"Well, my boy, " said his father, "let us have your opinion. "

Thus appealed to, Amos no longer hesitated, but said calmly, and in alow distinct voice, heard by every one at the table, "I had rather nothave given my opinion; but, when I am thus openly appealed to, I mustnot shrink from expressing it. I think it wrong, utterly wrong, toridicule sin in any shape or form. To put sin in a funny light is notthe way to make us hate it as we ought to do. Our Saviour never madelight or a jest of sin; and I believe that the man who mimicked adrunkard and a hypocritical preacher had no love for either sobriety orholiness. "

The profoundest silence reigned while Amos uttered these words. Atfirst his voice had trembled, but it immediately became perfectly firm, and a quiet peace rested on his sweet face as he finished. A suddenchill seemed to have fallen on most of the party. Some shrugged theirshoulders, some smiled, others looked annoyed. Mrs Morse and herdaughter exchanged looks of bewilderment behind Amos's back. Walter, with feelings of mingled shame and vexation, glanced at the bright faceof his aunt, whose eyes swam with grateful tears. Then he glanced down:her hands were crossed; yes, he knew that it would be so. And how feltMr Huntingdon? To the surprise of all, and of none more than Amoshimself, he exclaimed, "That's right, Amos; you've spoken out like aman, and I believe you are right. "

For a while there was silence; then a gentleman near the squire's end ofthe table asked his next neighbour, "What sort of a looking man was thissame mimic? I believe you were at Lady Gambit's. "

"Yes, I was there, " replied the other. "I can't say much in his favour. He was not a bad-looking fellow, --black hair, if it was his own, blackpiercing eyes, and a black beard. I can't imagine where her ladyshippicked him up. "

"But _I_ can, " said a gentleman opposite. "He is some strolling player. He got, it would seem, access to Lady Gambit's ear in some underhandway; and he has done now what our young friend Walter suggested a littlewhile ago that he might as well have done sooner. Having taken otherpeople off, he has taken himself off also, and has contrived to carrysome twenty pounds of her ladyship's money with him, which he managed toswindle her out of; and the police are on the look-out for him. I heardthat only this morning from the sergeant himself. "

Poor Amos! how terribly his heart sank within him when he heard thesewords! Yes; he could have little doubt about it. This mimic andswindler, he felt assured, was none other than his own brother-in-law. Happily, however, he was pretty sure to be now out of the neighbourhood, and was not likely to show himself soon again. But what of his unhappywife? Alas! Amos dreaded to think what the unprincipled man might dowith or against her. 

Glad, heartily glad, were both the brothers when the dinner was over, and the rest of the evening, after "dragging its slow length along, " hadat last come to an end. Walter, indeed, rattled away in the drawing-room to every one's content but his own. Still, a chill had fallen onmore than one of the party; and as for poor Mrs Morse and her daughter, after endeavouring to make themselves agreeable by gusts which werefollowed by portentous lulls, they were glad to order their carriage andtake their departure at the earliest hour consistent with politeness. 

And now, when all the guests had taken leave, and Miss Huntingdon hadretired to her room, happy in the prospect of coming rest, she heard asort of half scuffle at her door, followed by a knock. Then in cameWalter, dragging in some one after him who was evidently reluctant to bethus introduced. "Can you, oh, can you, dear aunt, spare me--ay, spare_us_, --that means me and Amos, or, rather, it ought to be Amos and me, --just a few minutes? Amos doesn't want to come, just like his unselfishself, but I do. No, I don't want to tire you after all your fatigues, but I can't go to sleep till I have had a word from you. If you don'tlet me stop, if you don't say that word, I shall lie awake all night, thinking of those hands--not _cross_, for their owner is never cross, but _crossed_--those crossed hands. Or if I do go to sleep, I shall donothing but dream of them. So pray let me stop; and Amos must stoptoo. "

The permission to remain having been cheerfully granted, Walter hauledhis brother into a chair, and then, stooping over him, kissed hisforehead. Then he flung himself on his knees and looked up wistfullyinto Miss Huntingdon's face. Oh, how entirely did she forget allweariness, as she marked the effect that Walter's kiss had on hisbrother; how it brought tears from those eyes which had long knownlittle of weeping except for sorrow. 

"Well, dear boy, " she said, "and what would you have with me now?"

"Ah! auntie, I want those hands to talk to me, and I want Amos to hearthem talk. I want you to tell us both some of your moral courageanecdotes; they will strengthen him and be a lesson to me; for I don'twant you to tell me this time that I was wrong. There sits the braveman, here kneels the coward. "

"Dear, dear boy, " was Miss Huntingdon's reply, with a warm embrace, "yes; what you say is true. It _did_ require true moral courage tospeak up as Amos did, at such a time and before so many; and we havesome noble instances on record of such a courage under somewhat similarcircumstances, and these show us that conduct like this will forcerespect, let the world say and think what it pleases. I have two orthree heroes to bring forward on this topic, but I must be brief, as thehour is late. 

"You remember Frederick the Great, as he was called. Alas! he was greatin infidelity as well as in war; and he delighted to gather round himthose who shared in the same unbelieving views. God and his truth weresubjects of ridicule with them; and a bold man indeed would he be whowould venture to say in their presence a word in favour of the gospel orof respect for its divine Author. But there was such a one amongstthose who had the privilege of sitting at the king's table; an old grey-headed man of rank, who had fought his country's battles nobly, andwhose wise counsels in state affairs were highly prized by hissovereign. He was dining one day at the palace, and saw all round himnone but those who made a mock of sin and religion. The conversationflowed freely, and the smart jests of Frederick called forth similarflashes of wit from his different guests. The subject of Christianitysoon came up, and was immediately handled in the most profane and bitterstyle by the king and those around him. No wit is so cheap as profanewit; for the devil seems to give a special facility of sarcasm to thosewho attack God's truth; and, besides that, there seems nothing whichungodly men relish so much, for giving point to their blasphemies, asScripture facts or words misquoted, misapplied, or parodied. So thegospel and its Founder were bandied from tongue to tongue as a theme forunholy mirth. But presently there was a pause and a dead silence; forthe grey-headed old soldier, who had sat perfectly silent and deeplypained, as he listened to the unhallowed talk of his companions, rose tohis feet, his face flushed, and his hoary head bowed down. What wascoming now?

"`May it please your majesty, ' the old man began, while the tears randown his cheeks, and his voice was troubled, `I have always, as I amsure you will acknowledge, behaved with due respect to your majestywhenever in your majesty's presence; nor can any one here say that hehas ever heard me speak evil of your majesty behind your back. Yourmajesty knows, also, that I have endeavoured to serve you faithfully onthe field and in the council-chamber. You must therefore bear with mewhile I say that I cannot sit patiently by and hear your majesty joinwith your friends in speaking evil of the dearest friend I have, onedearer to me than my life, and whom I must hold in greater honour thaneven your majesty. I mean my Saviour and heavenly King, the Lord JesusChrist. Pardon me, therefore, your majesty, if I ask leave to withdrawat once. '

"Just imagine, dear boys, such a speech in such a company, for to sucheffect were the words spoken by that noble old soldier of the Cross. Ah! it is comparatively easy to stand up for the truth in our day andcountry, because religion is now universally respected by all people ofgood sense and refinement, even by those who do not follow it; andanything like an open attack upon Christianity, in a mixed company, would be frowned upon by society as being ungentlemanly and in badtaste. But it was not so in Frederick's court, where a profession ofinfidel opinions was almost held to be an essential in one who wouldmake any pretension to intellectual acuteness. And the old officer knewthis well. He knew the scorn which would glare upon him from the eyesof the other guests. He expected nothing but sneering pity, where suchsentiments as his own could not be visited with a severer penalty. Buthe did not hang back through fear of man. He could say, as David saysin the Psalms, `I will speak of thy testimonies even before kings, andwill not be ashamed. ' Was he not a true moral hero, dear Walter?"

"An out-and-out one, dear aunt, " was his reply. "But what did the kingsay to this?"

"The king behaved on this occasion like a king and a man. Poor king, hewas not without a heart that could, at times, feel as it ought to do. He at once turned to the faithful old servant of the great Master, and, checking all attempts at ridicule or retort in the other guests, assuredhim that he thoroughly respected and appreciated his feelings andmotives and his present conduct, and that never again would he himselfsay anything against the old man's faith nor his Saviour while he wasby, nor would he suffer any who might be with him to do so. "

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" said Walter. "The old man got the best of it afterall; and so will my brother Amos here, spite of his having such anunworthy coward of a brother as poor Walter. But you have anotherexample for us, auntie; nothing like knocking the nail on the head. Ifeel better already, and mean to be a perfect moral lion for bravery infuture; at least I hope so. "

"I hope so too, Walter, " said his aunt with a smile. "I will give you, then, one other instance of the same sort of moral courage, but takenfrom quite a different country, and occurring in our own days; and thenI think we shall have had lessons enough for to-night. My hero thistime is an American, and a young man too. 

"You will have heard of the remarkable revival which took place in thatcountry, I mean in the United States, some few years since. Of course, at such seasons there will be a mixture of good and evil. Not all whomake a profession will stand firm; while those who have been merelycarried along by the current of excitement will return at last to theworld, from which they have never really separated themselves, when theexcitement has passed away. But, indeed, a great and lasting work forGod was accomplished in that revival, and the young man I am speakingabout was one of the fruits of it. 

"He had been living a very gay and thoughtless life. I am not sure thathe had been indulging in any openly sinful practices; but, at any rate, he had been giving himself up wholly to the pursuit of this world. Hewas in a good social position, and possessed of abundant means. Moreover, he had received a good education, so far as mere learningwent, and was of pleasing and popular manners. The last thing he wouldhave thought of would have been turning a Christian. But God, whosethoughts are not as our thoughts, had better things in store for him. The revival wave swept over the neighbourhood where he was, and carriedhim along with it. His heart, his views, his aims were all reallychanged; he was, indeed and in truth, a new creature. And now he feltthat he must not hide his colours, he must nail them to the mast, or, rather, he must wrap them round him that, go where he might, every onemight see them. His was that thorough-going, energetic, outspeakingdisposition which has accomplished such marvellous earthly thingsthrough so many of his fellow-countrymen. He was not the person to doanything by halves. 

"Before his conversion, himself and several other young men, of liketastes and habits, used to meet weekly at one another's houses, in turn, for card-playing and carousing; and at these meetings he used to be thevery life of the party, the gayest of the gay. But what should he donow? It would be no easy matter to confess to his young associates thechange that had taken place in his heart. What would they think andsay? Perhaps he might let it get known by degrees, and then he couldjust absent himself from the old gatherings, and merely drop out of asociety no longer congenial to him. This would save him a great deal ofshame and reproach. Would not this be as much as could be reasonablyexpected of him, and sufficient to show his sincerity and consistency?It might have satisfied ordinary characters, but it did not satisfy him. He wanted to be doing something at once for the Master, and to beginwith those very young men who had been his companions in sin. So hesent round his printed invitations to every one of them to a gatheringin his own house. Such had been the custom with all the members oftheir fraternity. But this time the invitation was no longer to `Teaand Cards, ' but to `Tea and Prayer. ' It was, indeed, a bold stroke, butit was not the act of the moment from mere impulse or excitement. 

"The day of meeting came. A few of his old acquaintances arrived, some, it may be, out of curiosity, or supposing that the `Prayer' was only ajoke. But none were left in doubt. Plainly, lovingly, faithfully, heset before them how the change had been wrought in himself, and howhappy it had made him; and then he affectionately urged them all to takethe same course as he had done. And I believe that his noble andcourageous dealing was not in vain. Am I wrong, Walter, in classingthat young American gentleman among my moral heroes?"

"No, dear aunt, certainly not, " replied her nephew thoughtfully. "Ithink he deserves a foremost place;--don't you, Amos?"

"Yes, " replied his brother; "he reminds me of the greatest, perhaps, ofall moral heroes--I mean, of course, among beings like ourselves. I amthinking of the apostle Paul, who changed at once from the persecutor tothe preacher; gave up every earthly honour and advantage; braved thebitter scorn of his old friends; and, without hesitation, beganimmediately publicly to proclaim the gospel which he had before been madto destroy. "

Walter held out his hand to his brother, and the clasp was a close andmutual one; and then, hand in hand, they left their aunt, who laid herhead on her pillow that night with deep thankfulness in her heart, forshe saw that, spite of all drawbacks, there was a good work makingprogress in Walter, and that the high and holy character of the true andtried disciple of the Saviour was gaining strength and beauty in theonce despised and misunderstood Amos. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

IS IT GENUINE?

But though Walter was learning to understand and appreciate hisbrother's character, and to acknowledge his superiority to himself inmoral courage, he was not altogether satisfied with continuing to lieunder the sense of that superiority on his brother's part. He hadhimself been so constantly made the object of his father's admirationand outspoken praises, and had always been so popular with all friendsof the family and guests at the Manor-house, that anything like afeeling of inferiority to his brother was one which he found it veryhard to allow a lodging in his heart and thoughts. So, while thegenerous impulse of the moment had led him to applaud and rejoice in hisbrother's noble moral courage, when they were discussing the matter inhis aunt's room, he was by no means prepared, when that impulse had diedaway, to allow Amos to carry off and retain the palm which heacknowledged that he had won. Jealousy of his brother's reputation formoral courage with Miss Huntingdon was a meanness which he would havethought himself incapable of, and which he would have repudiatedindignantly had he been charged with it. Nevertheless, it was there inhis heart; it made him restless and dissatisfied, and kept him longingfor an opportunity to display a moral courage which should shine with alight that might, even in his aunt's eyes, eclipse, or at any rateequal, that which glowed so brightly in Amos. He was therefore on thewatch for such an opportunity; and before long that opportunity, as hethought, presented itself. 

One morning as the squire was reading the county paper, while his sisterwas superintending the preparations for breakfast, and her two nephewswere seated near her, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed suddenly, in a tone ofangry excitement, "Why, whatever is the meaning of this? Walter, myboy, whatever does it mean?"

"What, father?" asked his son in a voice of mingled uneasiness andsurprise. 

"Why, just listen to this advertisement:--`I hereby challenge theworking-men of this neighbourhood to a trial of skill in running, leaping, and shooting; and I promise to give a sovereign to any man whoshall beat me in a mile race, a high jump, and firing at a mark. Thetrial to come off on Marley Heath, on Tuesday, June 8th, at four o'clockp. M. 

"`Signed, Walter Huntingdon, Flixworth Manor. '--Do you know anythingabout this, Walter? Did you really put this advertisement into thepaper? or is it a disgraceful hoax?"

Poor Walter looked perfectly astounded, as did also his aunt andbrother. Then he said, with some hesitation, "It is no advertisement ofmine. "

"No, I thought not, " said his father indignantly. "It must be, then, amost shameful hoax; and I shall speak or write to the editor about it inpretty strong terms you may be sure. "

"Father, " said Walter sadly, and after a pause, "it is no hoax. "

"No hoax! What do you mean? You said you did not put the advertisementin; so it must be a hoax. "

"I will explain it, " said his son in a subdued voice. "The other day, young Saunders, Gregson, and myself were discussing which of us was thebest shot, and best at a race and a jump. `Well, ' said I, `we caneasily put it to the test. Let us meet to-morrow on Marley Heath andhave it out. ' So we brought our guns with us next day; and Saunders andGregson brought a few other fellows with them to look on and see allfair. We three fired at a mark, and leapt over a rod hung across twopoles, and tried who was best runner over a hundred yards; and I won theday in all three things. So, as we were sitting down in the littleroadside inn, where we all had some eggs and bacon and bread and cheesetogether for lunch, Gregson said to the other fellows, `Why, our friendWalter here might challenge the whole county. ' `That he might; and wintoo, ' said more than one of them. `I don't know, ' I said; `but Ishouldn't mind offering a sovereign to any working-man in theneighbourhood who would beat me. ' `Good, ' said Saunders; `there's manya working-man that would like to have a try for your sovereign; and itwould be capital fun to see the match come off. ' `What do you say toputting an advertisement in the county paper to that effect?' saidGregson. `Not I, ' I said; `I shall do nothing of the sort. ' `Ah, he'sbacking out, ' said Saunders. `Indeed, I'm not, ' I cried; `I meant whatI said. ' `Well, will you let me put the advertisement in in your name?Don't be modest, man; you're sure to win, ' said Gregson. `You can do soif you like, ' I replied; `I have no intention to go back from my word. 'I said this half in joke and half in earnest, and no doubt we were all alittle excited with the sport and with the lunch; but I never dreamedthat Gregson was serious when he talked about putting in theadvertisement in my name, and I shall not soon forgive him for gettingme into such a fix. So, father, that's just all about it. "

Mr Huntingdon listened to this explanation with much surprise andvexation, and then was silent. 

"And what do you mean to do about it, Walter?" asked his aunt. "Yousurely won't let the matter go on. "

"I don't see how I can help it, " was her nephew's reply; "the challengehas been publicly given in my name. "

"It can't be--it mustn't be, " exclaimed his father angrily; "it'sperfectly preposterous. We shall be the talk and the jest of the wholecounty. It will do harm, too, to the working-classes. Why, you'll haveall the idle vagabonds there. Some light-fingered and light-heeledpoacher will win your sovereign--you'll be the laughing-stock of all thecountry round, and so shall I too. And such a thing, instead ofencouraging patient industry and sobriety, will be just the means ofgiving heart to the idlers and the profligates. It must not be, Walter, my boy. "

His son did not reply for some time; at last he said, "I don't see how Ican back out of it; I've pledged my word. I'm sorry for it, and I'mwilling to take all the shame and blame to myself, and all the ridicule, if I'm beaten. You may depend upon it I won't be caught in this wayagain, but I must go through with it now. "

"Nonsense, " said his father; "I don't see that at all. "

"Perhaps not, father, " replied his son; "but I can't go back from whatI've said. " These last words were uttered with a dogged determinationof tone and manner which showed that Walter had made up his mind, andwas not to be turned from his purpose. 

Like his father, he had a considerable share of obstinacy in hisdisposition, and Mr Huntingdon could call to mind several occasions onwhich a battle with his favourite son had ended in the boy's getting hisown way. And so, thinking further remonstrance useless, at any rate forthe present, he let the matter drop, hoping, as he said afterwards tohis sister, that Walter would come to his senses on the matter when hehad had time to think the subject over coolly. But he was mistaken inthis hope. Much as Walter was annoyed at having been thus taken at hisword, which he had given half in jest, he nevertheless considered thathe was pledged to abide by what had been advertised in his name and withhis sanction. So on the day appointed there was a considerablegathering of working-men, and also of women and children, on MarleyHeath, and this gathering swelled into a crowd as the time of trialapproached. 

Gregson and Saunders--who enjoyed the whole thing amazingly, and nonethe less because, as they had expressed it to each other as they camealong, "Young Huntingdon would be none the worse fellow for getting alittle of the shine and brag taken out of him"--were on the spot in goodtime, with several like-minded companions. These all gathered roundWalter as he came on to the ground, and wished him good success, assuring him that no doubt he would keep his sovereign safe in hispocket, and come off conqueror. 

Poor Walter's reply to his friends was not particularly cordial in itstone, and made Gregson see that he must put in a word of conciliation. "Come, old fellow, " he said, "you must forgive me if I took you tooliterally at your word. I really thought you meant it; it will do noharm to anybody, and will only show that you've got the old Huntingdonpluck and spirit in you. "

"All right, " said Walter, but not very cheerily; "I'm booked now, andmust make the best of it. How many are there who are going in for thetrial, do you think?"

"We shall see, " said Saunders, "if we wait a bit; it wants a quarter tofour, still. "

Everything was then duly arranged for the contest. A mile's course hadbeen previously marked out, and a shooting-butt set up, and also twopoles with a leaping-rod across them. As the hour approached, severalyoung men respectably dressed came up, and among them a powerful andactive-looking fellow whose appearance was hailed by a general shout ofmirth. His clothing was none of the best; his face was scarred inseveral places; and there was a free-and-easy manner about him, verydifferent from that of the other competitors. He answered the loudlaughter by which his appearance had been greeted with a broad grin anda profound bow of mock salutation. Each candidate for the trial hadbrought his gun with him, and stood prepared for the contest. Gregsonand Saunders managed all the arrangements after a brief consultationwith Walter. 

Four o'clock had now come, and Gregson, having ascertained the fact bylooking at his watch, brought the competitors forward, and informed themthat the shooting would be the first thing, and that six shots would beallowed to each, the winner being of course he who should place thegreatest number of marks nearest the bull's-eye. At the same timeGregson made it to be distinctly understood that the sovereign was onlyto be given to the man, if such should be found, who should beat WalterHuntingdon in all three things, --namely, in shooting, leaping, andrunning. 

By his own request Walter came first. Whatever may have been hisfeelings of annoyance or reluctance up to this time, they were nowcompletely swallowed up in the excitement of the moment and the desireto maintain the high reputation he had previously gained. So he threwhis whole soul into the contest, and with steady eye and unwavering handpointed his rifle towards the target. Bang! a cloud of smoke. Wellshot! the bullet had struck the target, but not very near the centre. Asecond and third were equally but not more successful. The fourthstruck the bull's-eye, the fifth the ring next it, and the sixth thebull's-eye again. Bravo! shouted the excited crowd; would any one beatthat? Forward now came a sober-looking young man, and did his best, butthis was far short of what Walter had achieved. Two others followedwith no better success. Then came one who handled his gun verycarefully, and took his aims with great deliberation. Three shots inthe bull's-eye! here was a winner--would any one come up to him? Fourmore came forward, and two of these again scored three shots in thebull's-eye. And now the rough-looking man, who had excited the generalmirth of the crowd on his arrival, took his stand opposite the target. He gazed at it a full minute before raising his piece. There was aderisive titter throughout the spectators as at last he did so in anawkward style, and with a queer twist of his mouth. The next moment hewas rigid as a statue cut out of stone. Flash! bang! the bull's-eye;again the bull's-eye; two more very near it; twice again the bull's-eye. So he has made the best score after all. "I thought so, " he cried, with a swaggering toss of his head and a jaunty whistle, and then with aflourish of his rifle high in air he strode back into the midst of theonlookers. Thus there were four of the competitors who had outdoneWalter in the firing at the mark. 

But the running and jumping yet remained to be contested. The jumpingwas arranged to come next, and the four winners in the shooting preparedto do their best against their young challenger: Walter was nowthoroughly roused, and, taking off his coat, and exchanging his bootsfor a pair of light shoes, stepped forward to exert himself to hisutmost. Higher and higher did he bound over the cross-rod as it wasraised for him by his friends peg by peg. Jumping was a feat in whichhe specially prided himself, and loud was the applause of Gregson, Saunders, and their friends as he sprang over the rod time after time. At last he failed to clear it, and his utmost was done. And now theprevious winners came on in turn. The first who made the attempt soongave in; he was clearly inferior to Walter in the high jump. The nextsurpassed him by one peg. The third equalled him. And now came forwardthe strange-looking man on whom all eyes were eagerly bent. He haddivested himself of his coat and dirty neck-tie, and having kicked offhis shoes, looked round him with a snort and a wild grimace, and thenran forward with a light, skipping step, and cleared the first stickwithout the slightest effort. Each succeeding height was leapt overwith the same ease, till he had equalled the most successful jumper. "And now for a topper, " he cried, as the rod was raised by still anotherpeg. Throwing all his energies into the effort, with a rush and amighty bound he cleared the stick by nearly a foot, and danced gailyback to the starting-point amidst the vociferous applause of allpresent. Therefore Walter had now the two to contend with in the foot-race who had surpassed him in the high jump. The interest of the crowdwas now at boiling-point, and all sorts of conjectures, opinions, andaffirmations were circulated as to the issue of the trial, while thethree who were to run were resting a while. At length, cheered on bythe sympathising shouts of the impatient spectators, they placedthemselves abreast, stripped of all superfluous garments, and at asignal from Gregson the race began. Walter commenced warily, husbandinghis strength, and not quickening his speed till he had reached themiddle of the course; the one of the remaining two did much the same. As for the other, the wild-looking winner of the highest place in thetwo previous contests, he slouched along amidst peals of laughter allthrough the line. Nevertheless, it was soon evident that, althoughdropping behind a little in the first quarter of a mile, he wasgradually drawing up nearer and nearer to the front. When Walter hadaccomplished three-fourths of his task, and was now putting on extraspeed, the wild stranger, with a shout of "Victory for ever!" flunghimself forward at a tremendous speed, and kept easily ahead to the end. The two remaining racers now pressed on abreast till within a yard ofthe place from whence they started, when, by a last vehement effort, Walter's companion came in a foot or two in advance. All flungthemselves on the grass, and when the hubbub of cheers and shouts hadsubsided, Walter rose to his feet, and holding out a hand to each of thevictors, said with a laugh, "Fairly beaten. "

Gradually now the crowd began to disperse, while the little band ofcompetitors gathered round a cart which had been brought up by Walter'sdirection carrying some refreshments for himself and his friends, andthose who had tried skill and endurance with him. When the provisionshad been duly partaken of, Walter, taking out his purse, turned to thoseabout him and said: "And now, to whom am I to give the sovereign, fortwo have beaten me?"

"Oh, to our friend here, of course, " said Gregson, placing his hand onthe strange-looking man's shoulder, "for he has done the best rightthrough. "

"Come forward, then, my man, " said Walter; "and pray, may I ask yourname?"

"Oh, " said the man addressed, with a laugh, "every one knows my name--Jim Jarrocks they calls me. "

"Well, Jim, here's your sovereign, and you've fairly won it. "

"Thank'ee, sir, " said Jim; "and so has Will Gittins here, if I'm notmistaken. "

"How do you mean?" asked Saunders; "the sovereign was offered to thebest man. "

"Them's not the terms of the advertisement, " said Jim, taking thenewspaper out of his pocket. "Here it is: `I promise to give onesovereign to any man who shall beat me in a mile race, a high jump, andfiring at a mark. ' Now, I've done it and won my sovereign, and WillGittins has done it and won his sovereign too. "

It was even so. Two had fairly won the prize. So Walter, not with thebest grace, felt in his purse for a second sovereign, which he handed tothe other winner; and the two men walked away from the place of meetingarm in arm. 

"Walter, " said Gregson earnestly and apologetically as they left theground, "I never meant this nor thought of it. I can't let you be outof pocket this second sovereign; you must allow me to give it you back. "

But Walter declined it, spite of earnest remonstrance and pressure onhis friend's part. "No, " he said; "I've got myself into a nice mess bymy folly; but what I've undertaken I mean to carry out, and take my ownburdens upon myself. " And so, notwithstanding the applause and finespeeches showered on him by his friends, Walter returned homeconsiderably crestfallen and out of spirits, the only thing thatcomforted him being a sort of half conviction that he had shown aconsiderable degree of moral courage in the way in which he had stuck toand carried out his engagement. 

As for Mr Huntingdon, his mortification was extreme when there appearedin the next issue of the county paper a full description of the contest, from which it appeared that his favourite son had been beaten in apublic trial of skill by Jim Jarrocks, well-known all over the county asthe most reckless poacher and unblushing profligate anywhere about, andhad thus given encouragement to a man who was constantly before themagistrates for all sorts of minor breaches of the law. However, hefelt that he must make the best of it, and he therefore spoke of itamong his friends as a bit of foolish practical joking on his son'spart, in which he had burned his fingers pretty severely, and whichwould therefore, he had no doubt, read him a lesson to avoid anything ofthe sort in the future. 

As for Walter himself, he was only too glad to keep silent on thematter, and let it die out; and so were the family generally. There wasone, however, from whom Walter looked for sympathy, and even for ameasure of approbation--this was his aunt. In the evening, after thearticle in the county paper on his challenge and its results had beenread with severe comments by his father at the breakfast-table, he foundMiss Huntingdon sitting alone in the summer-house. Having cut two orthree small slips off a laurel, he brought them to her, and, as he satdown by her side, said, half mournfully, half playfully, "Auntie, I wantyou to make me a laurel crown or chaplet of these. "

"Indeed, Walter; what for?"

"That I may wear it as a reward from you, and a token of victory inmoral courage. "

"Well, but, my dear boy, if the laurels are to be looked at as a rewardfrom myself, I cannot crown you till I am satisfied that you have wonthem. "

"Exactly so, auntie; now that is just what I am going to show you. "

"Do so, dear boy, and I shall be only too rejoiced to make the chaplet, and to place it with my own hands on your head. "

"Well then, dear aunt, you have heard all about this wretched businessof the race; you may be sure that it has made me feel very small andvery foolish. "

"I can quite understand that, " said Miss Huntingdon; "and I have feltvery sorry for you in the matter; but I hope it may turn out for good, and make you a little more cautious. "

"I hope so too, auntie; but this is not the point with me just now. Iwant to get credit, from you at any rate, for a little bit, perhaps onlya very little bit, of moral heroism or courage. "

"Well, Walter?"

"Ah, now, auntie, that `well' didn't sound well. I'm afraid I shan'tget much credit or encouragement from you. "

"Let me hear all about it, dear boy, " said his aunt kindly. 

"Why then, you see, I made a foolish offer, and might have backed out ofit; and if I had done so I should have pleased my father and saved mymoney, and not have encouraged one of the biggest scamps going, and havebeen spared a lot of chaffing and ridicule. But you see I had given myword, though it was only half a word after all, for I never dreamed thatGregson would have taken me up as he did. But rather than break myword, I stood by what I had promised, and got all sorts of bother andtrouble by doing so. Now, wasn't that something like moral courage?Don't I deserve my laurels?"

"It was something _like_ it, " replied his aunt gravely. 

"Is that all, auntie? Wasn't it the thing itself? You know there hasbeen no dash or mere impulse here. I've had a deal of patience andforbearance to exercise, and these are quite out of my line. "

"Yes, I see that; but then, Walter--"

"But then, Aunt Kate, it wasn't moral courage after all. "

"Do you yourself think it was, dear boy?"

"Well, I don't know; I should like to think it was, but I am almostafraid. What should you call it, dear aunt, if it wasn't truly moralcourage?"

"I fear, dear Walter, you will think me very hard and unfeeling if I saywhat I really think. "

"Oh, no, no! speak out, auntie--let me hear the truth; you are neverreally unkind. "

"Then, Walter, I should call it obstinacy, and not moral courage. Youmade a promise, and you would stick to it through thick and thin, letthe consequences to yourself and others be what they might, just becauseyou had said it. Was it not so?"

Walter turned red, and looked very uncomfortable, and for a little timemade no reply. Then he said hastily, "And what _ought_ I to have done?"

"Well, my boy, in my judgment, " replied his aunt, "you ought to havelistened to your father, and to have withdrawn your offer, and to haveborne patiently the shame and the annoyance this would have brought uponyou from your friends Gregson, Saunders, and others. "

"Ah, I see; and then I should have shown real moral courage. What's thedifference, then?"

"I think, Walter, the difference is just this: in the course you took, your firmness and patience were for an _unworthy_ object; had you takenthe other course, they would have been for a _worthy_ object. It seemsto me that this makes all the difference. I could not myself call thatmoral courage which made a man carry through, spite of all hindrances, opposition, and with much personal sacrifice, a purpose which he mustknow to be unworthy. Now, I will give you an illustration of what Imean by an example. And first, I would remind you that all my heroeshitherto have been those who showed their moral courage about worthyobjects; for instance, Washington, Howard, Colonel Gardiner, the youngman in the American revival. But the person whose moral courage I amnow going to mention was not on other occasions one of my heroes, buthis conduct on one particular occasion is specially to the point justnow. For I want you to see, dear boy, that true moral courage is shown, not in sticking to a thing just because you have said it, when you mustknow that you ought not to have said it, but in giving up what you havesaid, and bearing the reproach of doing so, when you have becomeconvinced that you have said or undertaken what was wrong. It is duty, in fact, that makes all the difference. "

"I see it, auntie; and who's your hero now?"

"Frederick the Great of Prussia, Walter. "

"What! the man who ridiculed that good officer's religion?"

"The same; but remember that, while he ridiculed religion, he wasconstrained to honour that officer for his consistency. But his moralcourage was exhibited on a very different occasion. Now, you mustremember what sort of a man Frederick was, --he just resembled a spoiledchild, who could not brook the slightest thwarting of his will orpleasure. In some things he was a miser, and in others just thereverse. He wore his uniform till it was patched and threadbare, whilehe gave two dollars each for cherries in the winter. He would payenormous sums to secure a singer, and then refuse to allow the opera-house to be lighted with wax-candles, so that the pleasure of theevening was spoiled by the smell of tallow. He was, unhappily, well-known in the army for two peculiarities, --first, a temper of such ironunforgiveness that, if he had taken offence at any one, that man'scareer was closed, he was never employed again; and, second, a memory ofsuch tenacity that not a hope existed of entrapping him intoforgetfulness. 

"Now, among his officers there was a colonel, a very brave man, and acapital soldier, who, on one occasion, had made some slight militaryslip or blunder. This drew on him the king's displeasure, and was neverforgotten. So his pension or half-pay allowance was made the verylowest his rank would permit; for these allowances were regulated by theking himself. 

"The poor colonel had a wife and a large family of children; he did notunderstand how to make the best of his small income, nor to improve itby other employment, so that he was at last reduced to what was littleshort of beggary and starvation. Day after day he placed himself in theroyal ante-chamber and begged an audience; but the king would not hearhim, and one day got into a towering passion when the officer-in-waitingventured to utter the poor man's name in the king's presence. At lastthe colonel grew desperate. He could not make up his mind to beg; hiswife was ill, his children starving, --what was he to do? He hit uponthe curious idea of getting relief for his family by putting up, unobserved, in the night time, at the corners of the streets in Berlin, placards breathing the most venomous abuse of the king, in the hope thata reward would be offered to the person who should disclose who was thewriter of the placard, that he might then himself claim the reward byinforming against himself, and so might relieve the immediate pressingnecessities of his wife and children, whatever might be the personalsuffering and consequences to himself. 

"The plan succeeded. The king, in a transport of rage, offered a rewardof fifty gold pieces to whoever should disclose the offender. But youmay imagine Frederick's amazement when the poor colonel, in raggedregimentals, and half perishing with hunger, obtained an interview, andnamed himself as the guilty libeller. 

"And now, how did the king act, when the unhappy officer begged that thereward might be sent at once to his wife, that she might obtain medicalhelp for herself and bread for her children? What was such a man asFrederick likely to do? The colonel, when he confessed his crime, acknowledged that his life was justly forfeited, and asked no pity forhimself; and had the king acted up to his ordinary rules, he would haveat once ordered the miserable officer off to execution, or, at least, lifelong imprisonment. But it was not thus that he punished the crushedand miserable culprit. His heart was touched, his conscience waspricked; he felt that he had acted wrongly to the colonel in times past, and that he must now undo the wrong as far as was possible. But thenremember the king's character and habits, especially in militarymatters. When he had once said `No, ' when he had once resolved upon acourse of policy or action, he was the very last man to alter; the wholeworld might go to pieces sooner than he change. And yet, in thisinstance, having become thoroughly convinced that he had been treating adeserving man with injustice, he had the moral courage to reverse hisconduct, to unsay what he had before said, and to incur the risk ofbeing called fickle or changeable by doing what he now believed to bethe right thing. So he at once laid the poor man on his own couch, forthe colonel had fainted after making his confession. Then he gave himfood, and sent the doctor to his wife and provisions for the children;and then, having summoned an attendant, he bade him take the colonel'ssword, and consider the officer himself as his prisoner. After this hesat down and wrote a letter, and, having delivered it to the attendant, dismissed the unhappy man from his presence. 

"The person who now had the colonel in charge was an old friend of his, who had often tried to put in a kind word for him to the king, buthitherto without any good result. And now, as he conducted him from thepalace, he said, `You are to be taken to the fortress of Spandau, but, believe me, you have nothing to fear. ' Spandau was a fortress nearBerlin, to which at that time all state prisoners were sent. 

"On reaching Spandau, the officer gave his prisoner in charge to thecaptain of the guard, while he himself carried the king's sealed orderand the prisoner's sword to the governor of the fortress, who, havingread the king's letter, told the colonel that, although he was hisprisoner, yet he was not forbidden to invite him for once to joinhimself and his brother officers at the dinner-table. 

"In due time the guests assembled, and with them the poor, half-starvedcolonel. But imagine the astonishment of all when, after the dinner wasover, the governor of the fortress read out to the whole company theking's letter, which ran thus:--`Sir Commandant, I hereby nominate andappoint the present half-pay colonel, who was this day delivered over toyou as a prisoner, to the command of my fortress of Spandau, and I lookto receive from him in his new service proofs of the same fidelity, bravery, and attention to duty, and strict obedience, which he so oftenexhibited in the late war. The late commandant of Spandau now goes, inreward of his faithful services, as commandant of Magdeburg. '

"Now I call this, dear Walter, real nobility of conduct, real moralcourage in such a man as Frederick, the courage of acting out hisconvictions, when in so doing he was going contrary to those cherishedhabits and principles which were part of his very self, and made him ina degree what he was in the eyes of the world. This was indeed moralcourage, and not weak changeableness or fickleness, because it had anoble object. To have adhered to his ordinary course in the colonel'scase, when he had become convinced that he had been wronging thatofficer, would have been obstinacy and littleness. "

"Ay, auntie, " said Walter thoughtfully, "I am sure your view is theright one. So good-bye, laurels, for this time;" saying which, he threwthe boughs among the trees of the shrubbery. As he did so, he felt theloving arms of Miss Huntingdon drawing him closely to her, and then awarm kiss on his fair brow. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

PLUCK. 

"Aunt, " said Walter, as he sat at her feet, where he had placed himselfafter resigning his laurels, "I am afraid you are a little hard toplease--or, at any rate, that I haven't much chance of getting you tosee any moral courage in my unworthy self. "

"Why not, dear boy?" she asked; "why should not you exhibit moralcourage as well as any one else?"

"Oh, I don't know exactly; but it's so hard to know precisely what moralcourage is after all, there are so many things that it is not. Now, what do you say to `pluck, ' auntie; is `pluck' the same as moralcourage?"

"That depends upon what you mean by `pluck, ' Walter. "

"Oh! you must admire pluck. Every true-born Englishman and Englishwomanadmires pluck. "

"That may be, my clear nephew. I believe I do admire pluck, as far as Iunderstand what it is. But you must give me your idea of it, that I maybe able to answer your question about its being the same as moralcourage. "

"Well, dear aunt, it is a thoroughly English, or perhaps I ought to sayBritish, thing, you know. It isn't mere brute courage. It will keep aman who has it going steadily on with what he has undertaken. There isa great deal of self-denial, and perseverance, and steady effort aboutit. Persons of high refinement, and of very little physical strength, often show great pluck. It is by no means mere dash. There are pluckywomen too--plucky ladies also as well as plucky men. Indeed I thinkthat, as a rule, there is more true pluck among the weak than thestrong, among the refined than the coarse-grained. Thus you will findhigh-bred officers show more pluck and sustained endurance in sieges andfatigue parties than most of the common soldiers; and so it is withtravellers through difficult unexplored countries. Those who have hadthe least of rough training at home, but have given their mind morethoroughly to the work, will hold out and hold on pluckily when the bigfellows with limbs and muscles like giants give in and knock up. It'spluck that carries them through. Now, isn't that pretty much the sameas moral courage?"

"Hardly, I think, my dear boy. "

"Well, where's the difference?"

"I think the difference lies in this, that, if I understand rightly whatyou mean, and what I suppose is commonly meant by pluck, it may befound, and often is found, where there is no moral element in it atall. "

"I don't quite see it, auntie. "

"Do you not? then I must go to examples to show what I mean. I heardyou tell a story the other day at breakfast of what you called a very`plucky' thing on the part of your friend Saunders. "

"What! the fight he had with some bargees? Oh yes, I remember. "

"Now, Walter, what were the circumstances of that fight?"

"Ah, I remember; and I think I see what you are driving at, Aunt Kate. Saunders, who is only a slightly-built fellow, and almost as thin as awhipping post, got into a row with some of those canal men; he wantedthem to turn out of his way, or to let him pass and go through a lockbefore them, and they wouldn't. "

"And did he ask them civilly?"

"Nay, Aunt Kate, not he. No, I'm sorry to say he swore at them; forhe's a very hasty fellow with his tongue is Saunders. "

"And were the bargemen unreasonably hindering him?"

"I can't say that. They were just going into the lock when he rowed up, and he wanted them to get out of his way and let him go into the lockfirst. I don't think myself that he was right. "

"And what happened then?"

"Oh, he abused them, and they wanted to throw him into the canal; atleast they threatened to do so. And then he challenged the biggest ofthem to a stand-up fight, and a ring was made and they fought; andcertainly it was a strange thing to see Saunders, with his bare armslooking no thicker than a hop-pole, tackling that great fellow, whoseright arm was nearly as thick as Saunders's body. Nevertheless, Saunders didn't shrink; he stood up to the bargee, and, being a capitalboxer, he managed to win the day, and to leave the man he was fightingwith nearly blind with two swollen black eyes. And every one said what`pluck' little Saunders showed. "

"Had the bargeman a wife and children?" asked Miss Huntingdon quietly, after a few moments' silence. 

"What a strange question, auntie!" cried her nephew laughing. "Oh, I'msure I don't know. I daresay he had. "

"But I suppose, Walter, he was a plain working-man, who got bread forhimself and his family by his work on the canal. "

"Oh, of course, auntie; but what has that to do with it?"

"A very great deal, dear boy. There may have been plenty of pluck shownby your friend Saunders on that occasion, but certainly no moralcourage. Indeed _I_ should call his conduct decidedly immoral andcowardly. "

"Cowardly, aunt!"

"Yes, cowardly, and mean. What right had he to use, or rather abuse, his superior skill as a pugilist for the purpose of carrying out an actof wrong-doing, and so to give pain and inflict loss on a plain working-man who had done him no harm, and had not had the same advantages ofeducation as himself?"

"O aunt! you _are_ severe indeed. "

"Not too severe, Walter. Saunders, you acknowledge, spoke and actedhastily and improperly at first, and he must have known that he had doneso. Now the true moral courage would have been shown in his confessingthat he was wrong, and expressing sorrow for it. "

"What! to a bargee!"

"Yes, to a bargee, Walter. The world might have called him mean orcowardly for such a confession, but he would have shown true moralcourage and nobility for all that. To do what will give pain to othersrather than incur the reproach of cowardice is really acting under thetyranny of a mean and slavish fear of man, though it may be a pluckything in the eyes of the World. "

"Ah, well, auntie, that is certainly a new view of things to me; and Isuppose, then, you would apply the same test to duelling, --affairs ofhonour, as they used to be called?"

"Most certainly so, Walter. The duellist is one of the worst of moralcowards. "

"Ah! but, " cried the other, "to fight a duel used to be considered avery plucky thing, and it really was so, auntie. "

"I don't doubt it, Walter; but it was a very immoral thing also. Happily, public opinion has quite changed on the subject of duelling inour own country, and no doubt this has been owing indirectly to thespread of a truer religious tone amongst us. But what could be moremonstrous than the prevailing feeling about duelling a few years ago, asI can well remember it in my young days. Why, duelling was at that timethe highroad to a reputation for courage, and the man who refused tofight was frowned upon in good society, and in some places scouted fromit. And--I say it with the deepest shame--my own sex greatly helped tokeep up this feeling; for the man who had fought the most duels was, with the ladies of his own neighbourhood, for the most part, an objectof special admiration and favour. 

"And yet, what nobility or moral courage was there in the man who gaveor accepted the challenge? Just think of what the consequences mightbe, and what the ground of the quarrel often was. A hasty word, or evena mere thoughtless breach of etiquette, would bring a challenge; and theperson called out must not decline to meet his challenger, and give him`satisfaction, ' as it was called, in the shape of a pistol bullet, underpain of being cut by all his friends and acquaintances as a coward. Soa man who was a husband and father would steal away from his home earlyin the morning, and go out to some lonely spot and meet the man whom hehad offended, and be murdered in cold blood, and carried back a bleedingcorpse to his miserable widow and fatherless children, just because hecould not bear to be called a coward by the world. And to call this`satisfaction!' The devil never palmed upon his poor deluded slaves amore transparent lie. 

"Just think of two men, for instance, who had been friends for years, and in some unguarded moment had used intemperate language towards eachother. Their companions tell them that this is a matter for giving andreceiving satisfaction. So, in perfectly cold blood, with the mostceremonious politeness, the time and place of meeting are fixed by theseconds, who make all arrangements for their principals; and at the timeappointed these two men stand face to face, with no malice, it may be, in either heart, feeling rather that there were faults on both sides, and at any rate no more wrong done or intended than a little mutualforbearance and concession might easily set right. And yet there theystand; at a given signal aim each at the other's heart; and, if that aimis true, each is murdered by his brother, and hurried in a moment red-handed into the awful presence of his Maker and Judge. And this used tobe called `satisfaction, ' and the man who refused to give it was brandedas a coward. And such was the tyranny of this fashion which Satan hadimposed upon thinking and immortal men, that rarely indeed was a manfound who had the true moral courage to refuse to fight a duel whenchallenged to do so. "

"Ah then, auntie, " said her nephew, "you would give the laurels formoral courage to the man who declined to fight. "

"Certainly I would. Yes, I should have called him a truly noble andmorally courageous man who, in those sad duelling days, should havedeclined a challenge on the ground that he feared God rather than man--that he was willing to brave any earthly scorn and loss rather than be acold-blooded murderer and do violence to his own conscience, and breakthe laws of his Creator and Redeemer. Such courage as this would beworth, in my eyes, a thousandfold more than all the `pluck' in theworld. "

"Indeed, dear Aunt Kate, " said Walter seriously, "I believe you areright; but can you give me any example of such moral courage?"

"Yes, dear boy, I think I can. I call to mind the case of an excellentChristian man; I rather think he was an officer in the army, and thatmade his position more trying, because in the days when duelling was thefashion, for an officer to refuse a challenge would have raised up thewhole of the service against him. However, whether he was a militaryman or not, he was at any rate a true soldier of the Cross. Bysomething he had done, or left undone, he had grievously offended acompanion, and this friend or acquaintance of his called on him onemorning, and, being a hot-tempered man, charged him with the supposedoffence or affront, and working himself up into a violent passion, declared that they must fight it out, and that he should send him aformal challenge. The other listened very quietly to this outburst ofwrath, and then said calmly and deliberately, `Fight you, must it be?certainly, I must not decline your challenge. Yes, we will fight, andit shall be now; here, on this very spot, and with swords. I have myweapon close at hand. ' Saying which, the good man pulled a small Bibleout of his pocket, and holding it up before his companion, whose facehad turned deadly pale, said, `Here is my sword, the sword of theSpirit, the only weapon I intend to fight you with. ' Telling a friendabout it afterwards, the Christian man remarked, `Never did poorcreature look upon a Bible with more satisfaction and relief than myadversary did on mine. ' But at the time when the angry man wasspeechless with astonishment, the other proceeded to say to him kindly, `Friend, I have a dear wife and children. Now, would it have been rightin me to meet you with pistols or other deadly weapons, and to haveentailed lasting misery on those so dear to me, and so dependent on me, by either being myself your murderer or allowing you the opportunity ofbeing mine?' That was true moral heroism, dear Walter, and it had itsreward there and then, for the challenger at once grasped the hand ofhis companion and said, `It would not have been right on your part; youhave done just what it was your duty to do in declining my challenge, and I honour you for it. Let us part friends. '"

"Thank you, auntie; I admire your hero immensely. Now, pray give meanother example, if you have one ready. "

"I have read a curious story on this subject, " replied Miss Huntingdon, "but I am not sure that it is a true one. I read it in some book yearsago, but what the book was I cannot call to mind. However, the storymay be true, and it may be useful to repeat it, as it just illustratesmy present point about moral courage in reference to duelling. Thestory is substantially this:--

"Some years ago, when a regiment was quartered for a time in one of ourcounty towns, one of the officers of the regiment was challenged by abrother officer, and refused to accept the challenge. This refusal soonflew abroad over all the town and neighbourhood, and the consequence wasthat every one turned his back on the man who refused to fight. He wasavoided by all of his own rank of both sexes as a craven and a coward. Of course, he felt this very keenly. To be shut out from houses wherehe used to be welcomed; to be looked at with scorn by his brotherofficers; to have not a word addressed to him by any one of them whenthey met him on parade or at mess; to be the object of ill-concealedcontempt even to the common soldiers;--these things were burdens almostintolerable to a man who had any respect for his own character as asoldier. However, for a time he bore it patiently. At last he hit uponan expedient to prove to the world that he was no coward, which wasundoubtedly original and convincing, though, certainly, by no meansjustifiable. 

"A large evening party was being given to the officers of the regimentby some distinguished person in the town; a ball probably, for manyladies were present. While all were in the very midst and height oftheir amusement, suddenly the disgraced officer made his appearanceamong them in his dress uniform. How could this be? how came he there?Assuredly no one had invited him. As he advanced into the middle of thebrilliantly lighted room an empty space was left for him, officers andladies shrinking from him, as though his near approach broughtdefilement with it. Looking quietly round, he deliberately produced andheld up a hand-grenade, as it was called--that is to say, a smallbombshell--and, before any one of the astonished spectators could stophim, lighted a match at one of the wax-candles, and applied it to thefusee of the shell. A shower of sparks came rushing from the hand-grenade, which would explode in a minute or two or even less. Theconsternation of the company was frightful, and a furious and generalrush was made to the doors. As the guests dashed out of the room, somejust caught sight of the officer who had brought in and lighted theshell standing calmly over it with his arms folded. A few moments more, all the company had vanished terror-stricken, and then a frightfulexplosion was heard. One or two of the officers hurried back withhorror on their faces. The man who had been branded as a coward layoutstretched on the ground. He had thrown himself flat on the floor theinstant the room was cleared; the fragments of the shell had flown overhim, and he was almost entirely uninjured. 

"His object in this extraordinary proceeding was to show his brotherofficers and the world generally that a man might refuse, fromconscientious motives, to fight a duel and yet be no coward. I am notpraising or approving of his conduct in taking such a dangerous courseto prove his point; for he was endangering the lives of many as well ashis own life, and nothing could justify that. But, if the story betrue, it shows at least that a man may decline to do an act from a highsense of duty, so as to bring upon himself the reproach of cowardice, and yet may be a man of undoubted bravery after all. But I do not atall place this officer on my list of moral heroes. I trust, however, dear Walter, that our conversation on this subject will strengthen inyou the conviction that the noblest and truest courage is that highmoral courage which enables a man to endure with patience any scorn, orloss, or blame, rather than deliberately do what he knows that hisconscience and the Word of God condemn. "

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

AN EXPLOSION. 

It must not be supposed that Walter was prepared to follow out hisbrother Amos's moral courage at once and in everything. He was quitewilling to admire this high-toned courage, and was learning to becontent that his brother should enjoy the praise for it which was hisdue. He also fully intended to follow in the same steps some day orother; but then no real and radical change had taken place in his heartand character, nor had he any deliberate desire to give up old habitswhich were dear to him, and adopt new ones which would involveconsiderable and sustained self-denial. So he contented himself for thepresent with being more kind to his brother, and more careful not towound him by rash and unfeeling remarks. 

One thing, however, in Amos's conduct sadly puzzled and annoyed him. Knowing that his brother was well provided with money of his own, heused not unfrequently to borrow from him when his own allowance ranshort, which it very often did. This borrowing from Amos used to be butrarely followed by any repayment; for he had been so fully indulged byhis father when younger, that he had no idea, now that he was gettingmore from under his father's hand, of denying himself, or going withoutanything he might happen to fancy. At first he used to tell the trades-people in the neighbouring town, when he made any purchases, to put themdown to his father; but to this after a while Mr Huntingdon decidedlyobjected--finding, as he did, that expense was no consideration toWalter in the choice of an article, provided his father had to bear thecost. So Walter was made to understand that he must make the liberalallowance which his father gave him _do_, and that there must be no morerunning up of bills in Mr Huntingdon's name. But such an arrangementwas very galling to Walter, who had lived all his early boyhood underthe impression that, as being his father's favourite son, he had only toexpress a wish, or to ask for or to order a thing, and he would have itas a matter of course. However, the squire stood firm in the matter. Walter, he said, was old enough now to understand something of the valueof money, and he must learn to cut his coat according to his cloth. This coat, however, with Walter was usually of such exaggerateddimensions that his ordinary allowance of material would go only a smallway towards completing it. Consequently he used to have recourse toAmos, who invariably helped him through with a loan--for Walter wouldnever receive help from his brother except as a loan--Amos at the sametime hinting now and then at the hope of a partial repayment. To thisWalter would reply that his brother should have it all back, if hewished it, "one of these fine days;" but when such seasons ofexceptionally fine monetary weather were likely to occur, Amos found itdifficult to conjecture. A change, however, had now come over the elderbrother, much to the annoyance and disgust of Walter. A decided refusalof a loan of money was accompanied by Amos with a remonstrance with hisbrother on his extravagance. 

In a pet, Walter told Amos that he might keep his nasty sovereigns andshillings to buy toffee for dirty little boys and girls. He was muchobliged to him for his advice, but he knew his own concerns best; and asfor extravagance, it was better to put a little money into thetradesmen's pockets than hoard it up like a stingy old miser, just tohave the pleasure of saying, "See how rich I am. "

To all this Amos made no reply at the time, but afterwards sent hisbrother a portion of the sum he wished to borrow, with a kind note, inwhich he said that Walter was welcome to this and to all other sumspreviously lent, as a free gift, but that for the future he could notlend him money beyond a few shillings occasionally, as he had a use forhis own funds which made him unable to do for his brother what he haddone for him in times past. 

Partly touched at Amos's generosity, but more vexed at his presentpurpose respecting future loans, Walter was not disposed to look with avery favourable eye on his brother's money arrangements. What could hebe wanting with so much? What could he be doing with it? There wasnothing to show for it. If he had spent it in guns, or horses, or dogs, or travelling, or sight-seeing, Walter could have better acquiesced inthe expenditure. But the money seemed to be wanted for something which, as far as he could see, turned out to be nothing. So his curiosity wasconsiderably roused, and he resolved to find out, if he could, where hisbrother's spare cash went to. 

Things were in this position, when one evening, as the whole family wereseated on the lawn under some noble elms, enjoying the shade--for theweather had been exceedingly hot--a gentleman, well-known throughout thecounty for the interest he took in plans for doing good and alleviatingthe sorrows and sufferings of his poorer neighbours, called, and wasinvited by Mr Huntingdon to join his family on the lawn. "And now, mydear sir, " said the squire, "I know you are out on some errand ofbenevolence. You are a grand worker yourself, and a grand giver too, sotell us what is your present charitable hobby, and we must try and giveyou a help, so that you may ride him easily. "

"Thank you, Mr Huntingdon, with all my heart, " said the other; "you arevery kind. My hobby this time is a very robust animal, and will want agood deal of feeding if he is to keep up his strength. But to come toplain language, I am collecting subscriptions for a working-men'scoffee-house in Redbury--a British Workman they call it. You know, Idare say, that two ruinous old houses of mine in the market-place arebeing pulled down. Now, I am going to give the ground which one of themstands on for the new coffee-house. It is a capital situation, just inthe centre of the town. I shall want funds, however, for the erectionof a new and suitable building, and also a few annual subscriptions tokeep the establishment going and pay the expenses of management, as Idon't suppose it will be self-supporting, at any rate not at first. "

"Well, " said the squire, "let me look at your subscription list, for Isee you have one with you. Ah, good! it is very generous of you to putdown your own name for so large a sum to the building fund, besidesgiving the land. Put me down then for fifty pounds, and an annualsubscription of three guineas till the concern is self-supporting. "

"May I look at the list?" asked Miss Huntingdon, when their visitor hadexpressed his thanks to her brother. Having glanced at it, she alsosignified her willingness to be a helper in the work, and gave the listto Walter to return to the gentleman. 

As her nephew was giving back the subscription list, he paused for amoment to run his eye over the names of the contributors. "Ah!" hesaid, "I see your own sons down, Mr Johnson, for a guinea a piece. Iwish I could afford to follow their example. "

"Perhaps, after all, you can, " said the gentleman, smiling. "I am sureit does young people good to practise a little self-denial in helping ona good cause like this. "

"I don't doubt that, sir, " replied Walter, "but I am ashamed to say thatself-denial of that sort is not much in my line. But, then, I am not aman of independent fortune like my brother Amos here. Ask him, pray. He has, or ought to have, lots of spare cash, and he is always on thelook-out to be doing good with it. " There was a tone of sarcasm in hisvoice which grated very painfully on Miss Huntingdon's ear. Amoscoloured deeply, but made no remark. 

"What say you, my young friend?" asked Mr Johnson, in a kindly voice, turning to him. "Your brother encourages me to hope that we may addyour name to the list. "

The young man, thus appealed to, looked uneasy and embarrassed, andthen, in a few moments, said in an undertone, "I am sorry that just nowI am not in a position to add my name, but I shall be glad to do so whenI am better able. "

Mr Johnson did not press the matter, but shortly left, having firstpartaken of a little fruit which had been brought to him by the butlerwhile the conversation about the subscriptions had been going on. 

It has already been said that the old man Harry was a privileged servantof long standing, almost a portion of the estate, so that he was allowedlittle liberties which would not ordinarily have been permitted to onein his place. He had listened with burning cheeks and flashing eyes toWalter's sneering remarks about his brother's wealth, and now lingerednear the group, as he was removing a little table on which he had placedthe fruit for Mr Johnson. There was a restlessness about his mannerwhich Miss Huntingdon noticed and wondered at; but her attention wasthen drawn to Walter, who, lounging against a bench, said in a ratherdrawling voice, "I really wonder what some people do with their money. For my part, I don't see what's the use of it except to be jolly with ityourself, and to make other people jolly with it. --Amos, " he addedabruptly, "what's up with you that you've become so very poor all of asudden?"

To this Amos made no reply, but turned away to hide his vexation. 

"My boy, " said Mr Huntingdon, addressing his elder son, "I'm a littlesurprised myself that you should be at all hard up. I quite expectedthat you would have followed the example of Mr Johnson's sons, and haveput down your name. I think you could have afforded it. "

Still Amos did not reply, but seemed hesitating what to say. But hereWalter broke in again. "I call it downright mean!" he exclaimedbitterly; "but he's getting meaner and meaner, that he is. What he doeswith his money nobody knows. I suppose he spends it in religiouspocket-handkerchiefs and pious bed-quilts for the little niggers inAfrica, or something of the sort. At any rate, he has none to spare forthose nearer home. " He was about to say more, but happening to raisehis eyes he was astonished to see the old butler, who had been slowlydrawing nearer and nearer, raising his right arm, and looking at himalmost fiercely, as though he were going to strike him. --"What's up now, Harry?" he cried; "is the black cat dead?"

The old man's appearance now attracted every one's attention. He haddrawn himself up to his full height, and had turned so as to confrontMr Huntingdon, who was sitting with his sister by his side on a gardenbench facing the house. His snow-white hair gave him ordinarily avenerable appearance, and this was now increased by the look of intenseearnestness which glowed in his every feature. His back was to Amos, who, noticing that the old man was evidently about to speak under thepressure of some unusual excitement, half rose to his feet, but too lateto stop old Harry's purpose. 

"Master, " said the old man, in a voice hoarse with emotion, "hear me; ifit's to be for the last time, you must hear me. I can't hold in nolonger; so it's no use, come what may. "

Mr Huntingdon, struck with amazement at this speech of the olddomestic, could only exclaim, "Well!" while his sister and Walter lookedon and listened in mute wonder. 

"Master, " continued the old man, "you must hear me this once, if I'm tobe turned away this blessed night for what I'm a-going to say. I'vebeen hearing Master Amos called by Master Walter mean about his money, and I can't stand it, for I knows better. "

Here Amos sprang forward, and coming in front of Harry, strove bygesture and whispered remonstrance to stop him; but the other shook hishead, and motioned his young master back. 

"It's of no manner of use, Master Amos, " he cried; "I must and willspeak--the time's come for it. _I_ know why Master Amos can't afford tosubscribe: 'tain't because he hasn't got the will; 'tain't because he'sbeen spending it on himself, or sending it to the niggers, though hemight be doing worse with it than that. His money goes to keep dearMiss Julia as was--bless her little heart!--from want; and it goes, too, to keep a home for her little ones, and one on 'em's a girl, and she'sas like what her blessed mother was at her age as one lamb's likeanother. O master, master! if you loved Miss Julia as was as I loveher, and as Master Amos loves her, though she has married a vagabond ofa husband, and had the door of her home closed agen her for ever for it, and oh, if you'd but a touch still of the dear Saviour's forgiving lovetowards your own flesh and blood, you couldn't blame Master Amos fordoing as he's doing, if you only knew too how he's been a-sacrificing ofhimself, and bearing the shame and scorn all the while without a murmur. There, master, I've had it out. And now I suppose I must pack up andbe off for good; but it don't matter. I couldn't keep it in, so there'san end of it. "

The effect of this speech on all the members of the party wasoverwhelming, though in different ways. 

Mr Huntingdon's face turned deadly pale, and then flushed fiery red. He half rose from the bench on which he was sitting, and then sank backagain and buried his face in his hands. Then he started up, andmuttering something hoarsely, rushed into the house, and was not seenagain by the family that night. Next morning, before breakfast, hissister received a hasty note from him, merely stating that he wasleaving home, and should not return that day, and perhaps not for a fewdays. 

The old butler's disclosure was also most trying to Miss Huntingdon byits suddenness. Not that she was unprepared for it altogether, forquiet observation of Amos had made her sure that he had some noble andself-denying work in hand, and that probably it might have something todo with the welfare of his sister, whom she knew that he dearly loved. She was grieved, however, that the old butler had blurted out the secretin such an abrupt manner, and at the terrible distress which theunexpected revelation had caused her brother. 

As for Amos, he was ready to sink into the earth with dismay andvexation. All he could do was to look up reproachfully at Harry, who, now that the explosion had burst forth, and had driven his masterapparently almost out of his senses, looked round him with an utterlycrestfallen air, and then, coming up to Amos, said, while the big tearsrolled rapidly down his cheeks, "Oh, dear Master Amos, you must forgiveme. I didn't go for to do it with no bad meaning; but I couldn't bearit no longer. I daresay the master 'll turn me off for it, so I shallbe punished if I've done wrong. "

And how felt Walter? He was utterly crushed for a time beneath the oldman's words. All the truth flashed upon him now. And this was thebrother whom he had been holding up to ridicule and accusing ofmeanness. As thoughts of shame and stings of conscience stabbed intohis heart with their thousand points, he sank down lower and lower tothe ground till he had buried his face in the grass, sobbingconvulsively. Then, before Amos could reply to the old butler's pitifulapology, he sprang up, and flinging his arms round his brother's neckand hiding his head in his bosom, wept for a time as if his heart wouldbreak. At last he looked up at Amos, who had pressed him close to himand had lovingly kissed him, and cried out, "Was there ever such abeastly, ungrateful sneak of a brother as I am? Here have I beencalling Amos all sorts of names, and treating him worse than a dog, andhe's been acting like a hundred thousand moral heroes all the time! Canyou forgive your cowardly snob of a brother, Amos dear?"

There was no reply to this but another long and close embrace. 

As for old Harry, his face calmed down into its usual peacefulness. Heno longer waited for any reply from his young master, but turned towardsthe house with a smile beaming all over his countenance, and saying halfout loud, "All's well as ends well. There'll be good come out of thishere trouble as sure as my name's Harry. "

When he was fairly gone, both nephews drew close to their aunt, and tookeach a hand as they sat one on either side of her. Smiling at Walterthrough happy tears, she said, "I cannot cross my hands, you see, for mydear nephews have each got possession of one. "

"But they _ought_ to be crossed, " said Walter in a low, sad voice. 

"Not _now_, dear boy, " she replied; "I think we may let bygones bebygones, for surely better and brighter days are coming. "

"I hope so, aunt, " said Walter, now more cheerily, "But you must give methe example for all that; for you have one to the purpose, I know. "

"Yes, " was her reply, "I think I have, and I will tell it because it mayhelp to confirm you in keeping on the right side that new leaf which Ifeel sure you are now turning over. "

"Ah, tell it me then, auntie; if it shames me a hit it will do me noharm. "

"My hero then, this time, did not look much like one at the time when hedisplayed his heroism. He was a poor schoolboy, a Christ's Hospitallad. "

"What! one of those who go about without hats, in long coats and yellowstockings?"

"Yes, the same. Charles Lamb, who tells the story, which is a true one, was himself one of these Bluecoat boys. Among his schoolfellows wasthis boy, my present moral hero. He was dull and taciturn, and nofavourite with the other lads; but no one could bring any charge ofimproper conduct against him. There was one thing, however, about himwhich none of the other boys could understand. He always lingeredbehind all the rest after dinner was over, and came out of the dining-hall hiding something under his dress, and looking about himsuspiciously. What did it mean? Had he an unnaturally large appetite, so that he was led by it to steal food and eat it by himself after themeal was over? At any rate, if it was so, his extra provision did notimprove his personal appearance, for he was still thin and hungry-looking. 

"Some questioned him roughly on the subject, but they could get nothingout of him. He stopped for a while the practice which had drawnattention to him, but resumed it again when he thought that curiosityhad died out, and that he could follow his old ways unobserved. Butthere were boys on the watch, and at last it was fairly ascertained thatthe poor lad used to gather, as far as he had opportunity, scraps ofmeat, pieces of fat, and fragments of bread and potatoes, which had beenleft on the boys' plates. These he collected and carried off. Butthen, what did he do with them? It was not likely that he ate them. No. Then he must sell them when he went home, for his parents lived inLondon, and he was a day boy. No doubt he disposed of them to peoplewho were ready to give a few pence for refuse food, and thus the littlemiser was making money in this mean and underhand way. When thisconclusion had been arrived at, the whole school was in a state ofboiling indignation against the culprit. 

"They might have taken the law into their own hands, and have punishedhim in their own rough and ready way. But no; his conduct was tooshameful for that. It was looked upon as a serious disgrace to thewhole school. So the case was duly reported to the masters, and by themto the governors. Witnesses were examined, and the offence proved. Andnow, what was the defence of the poor lad? He had borne shame, scorn, reproach, reviling; he had borne them all patiently, without murmur, without resentment. What, then, was the reason for his strange conduct?what motive or inducement could make him thus brave the scorn andcontempt, the daily jeers, and the cut direct from his schoolfellows?All was soon made plain. This boy's parents were old and very poor--sopoor, helpless, and friendless that they were often brought to the vergeof starvation. In those days, remember, there was not the sameattention paid to the poor of all classes, nor loving provision made fortheir wants, as there is now. So the noble son--for truly noble hewas--submitted cheerfully to every trouble and shame that could fallupon himself, in order to get food from time to time for his almostfamishing parents. They were too respectable to beg, and would havenever allowed their boy to beg for them; and yet so destitute were theythat they were even glad of those miserable scraps, the after-dinnerleavings on the boys' plates. And these their son gathered for them, indifferent to the consequences which might happen to himself, while atthe same time he added a portion of his own daily food to supply thewants of the old people. 

"Ah! this was true moral courage, dear Walter; and it was all thegreater and nobler because it was exercised in such humble elements, asit were--I mean under circumstances where there was everything todegrade and nothing to elevate the poor boy in the eyes of hisschoolfellows. "

"I see, aunt, " said Walter, sadly and thoughtfully. "Yes, they calledhim mean, and shabby, and selfish, and frowned and scowled at him, whenall the while he was most nobly denying himself, and bearing all thattrouble that he might help those who were dearer to him than his goodname with his schoolfellows. Ay, I see it all; and it's just a case inpoint. That's just what I've been doing to my own dear noble brother, who has been sacrificing himself that he might help poor Julia and herlittle ones. And it has been worse in my case, because those Bluecoatboys had perhaps no particular reason to think well of the other chapbefore they found out what he had been driving at, and so it was naturalenough that they should suspect him. But it's been exactly the reversewith me. I've had no reason to suspect Amos of anything but goodness. All the baseness and meanness have been on my own part; and yet hereI've been judging him, and thinking the worst of him, and behavingmyself like a regular African gorilla to him. --Dear Amos, can you reallyforgive me?"

Hands were clasped tightly across Miss Huntingdon's lap, and then Amosasked, "And what was done to the poor boy?"

"Oh, " replied his aunt, "the governors of course acquitted him of allblame, and not only so, but rewarded him also, and, if I rememberrightly, proper provision was made for the poor parents of the noblelad. "

"Bravo! that's right, " cried Walter with a sigh of relief. "Well, Idon't like making big promises, but I do think I mean it when I say thatAmos shall not have an ungenerous or reproachful word from me again. "

"And so, " said Miss Huntingdon with a smile, "good will come out of thisevil, and it will turn out one of those `all things' which `worktogether for good to those who love God. '"

And Walter strove bravely to keep his word, and in the main succeeded. 

Old Harry began, on the day after he had made the unlooked-fordisclosure, to pack up his things and make preparations for hisdeparture, feeling fully persuaded that, on his master's return, heshould receive his instant dismissal. However, when Mr Huntingdon camehome, two or three days after the explosion, not a word was said aboutthe butler's leaving; indeed, if anything, his master's manner waskinder to him than usual, but not the slightest reference was made oneither side to what had passed. With Amos, however, it was different. His father would scarcely speak to him beyond the coldest salutationsmorning and evening. The poor young man felt it keenly, but was notsurprised. He could now open his mind fully to his aunt, and did so, and his own convictions and judgment agreed with her loving counsel thathe should wait in trust and patience, and all would be well. 

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

PROGRESS. 

Mr Huntingdon's conduct toward Amos was a great grief to his sister, but she felt that she must not openly interfere, and that she could onlydo her best to make up to her nephew, as far as was possible, for hisfather's coldness, and look for brighter times, which she felt sure werecoming, though as yet scarcely the faintest streak of dawn could be seenon the horizon. The old butler also was a great comfort to his youngmaster, being most anxious to do everything in his power to undo anyevil consequences which his own abrupt outspeaking might have broughtupon Amos. So he encouraged him to persevere in his great purpose, withall his might, assuring him that things would come nicely round in time. Amos shook his head sadly, for he was naturally of a desponding turn;he could see at present little but clouds and thorns before him. Notthat he wavered in his purpose for a moment, or had the least thought ofholding back from the work he had set his hand to, even for a time. Buthis father's harshness and manifestly abiding displeasure towardshimself he found very hard to bear. Nevertheless he was comforted bythe reiterated affirmations of Harry that things were coming nicelyround. 

"Take my word for it, " said the shrewd old man; "I knows the old masterand his ways better than you do, Master Amos, though you're his son andI ain't. But I've knowed him years longer than you have. Now he'sdispleased with you; but I'll tell you who he's more displeased with, and that's just his own self. I don't mean no disrespect to yourfather, Master Amos--he's as kind-hearted a gentleman and as good amaster as ever was, only a bit hasty sometimes; but then, which on usain't got faults of our own enough and to spare? But I'm sure of this, he has never been fairly satisfied with keeping the door shut agen dearMiss Julia as was, and he won't _be_ satisfied, depend on it, till she'sback again--I know it. You see, though there was a reg'lar flare upwhen I spoke up for you the other night, he has never said a word ofblame to me on the subject; and for why? I'll tell you--it's justbecause he knows and feels down in his heart of hearts as I were _not_to blame. But he must be angry with somebody--'taint pleasant to beangry with one's own self; he's never been used to be angry with MasterWalter; 'tain't no use being angry with Miss Huntingdon, 'cos she'd lookthe fiercest man as ever lived into a good temper--the mere sight of herface is enough for that, let alone her words. So master's just showinghis anger to you, Master Amos. But it won't last; it can't last. Soyou just stick to your work, and I'll back you up all in my power, andI'll keep my tongue inside my teeth for the future, if I possibly can. "

As for Walter, he felt thoroughly ashamed of himself, and tried in manyways to make up to his brother for his past unkindness, by variouslittle loving attentions, and by carefully abstaining from taunting andungracious speeches. This was very cheering to the heart of Amos, andlightened his trial exceedingly; but he felt that he could not yet takeWalter fully into his confidence, nor expect him to join with him in apursuit which would involve much quiet perseverance and habitual self-denial. For how were the banished ones to be brought back? Whatpresent steps could be taken for their restoration? Any attempt tointroduce the subject of his sister's marriage and present position inhis father's presence he felt would, as things now were, be worse thanuseless. Once he attempted to draw the conversation in that direction;but Mr Huntingdon, as soon as he became aware of the drift of his son'sobservations, impatiently changed the subject. On another occasion, when Walter plunged headlong into the matter by saying at tea-time tohis aunt, "Eh! what a long time it is since we saw anything of Julia. Ishould so like to have her with us again; shouldn't you, auntie?" hisfather, striking his clenched fist on the table, and looking sternly athis son, said in a voice trembling with suppressed anger, "Not a wordagain on that subject, Walter, unless you wish to drive me out of my ownhouse. " So Amos's great purpose, his life-work to which he haddedicated himself, his means, his best energies, seemed hopelesslyblocked. 

The great hindrance was, alas! in that father whose heart must betouched and subdued before any effectual and really onward steps couldbe taken. But this barrier seemed to become daily more formidable. "What am I to do, Aunt Kate?" Amos said, when discussing the matterwith Miss Huntingdon in private; "what can I do now?"

"Rather, dear Amos, " replied his aunt, "must the question be, not somuch, `What can I do now?' as, `What must I do next?' Now it seems tome that the next thing is just prayerfully and patiently to keep yourgreat purpose in view, and to be on the watch for opportunities, and Godwill give success in due time. --Ah, here comes Walter. " She repeated tohim what she had just been saying to his brother, and then continued, "Now here we may bring in moral heroism; for it is a very importantfeature in moral courage to wait steadily watching for opportunities tocarry out a noble purpose, and specially so when the way seemscompletely, or to a great extent, hedged up. "

"Examples, auntie, examples!" exclaimed Walter. 

"You shall have them, " she implied. "I have two noble heroes to bringbefore you, and they both had the same glorious object in view, and wentsteadily on in their pursuit of it when everything before them looked asnearly hopeless as it could do. My two heroes are Clarkson andWilberforce. 

"I daresay you remember that there was a time when slaves were as muchproperty and a matter of course in our own foreign possessions as theywere a short time since in the Southern States of America. Socompletely was this the case, that when a slave was brought to Englandby one of our countrymen, he was considered his master's absoluteproperty. However, this was happily brought to an end more than ahundred years ago. A slave named Somerset, who had been brought by hismaster to this country, fell ill, and his master, thinking that he wouldbe of no more use to him, turned him adrift. But a charitablegentleman, Mr Granville Sharp, found him in his wretched state, hadpity on him, and got him restored to health. Then his old master, thinking that now he would be of service to him, claimed him as hisproperty. This led to the matter being taken up; a suit was instituted;and by a decision of the Court of King's Bench, slavery could no longerexist in England. That became law in 1772. The poet Cowper has somebeautiful lines on this subject:--

 "`Slaves cannot breathe in England: if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all our empire, that, where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. '

"Still, we could hold, and did hold, slaves to a large extent in some ofour colonies. Now the great object of Clarkson and Wilberforce was toget slavery abolished throughout the British dominions all the worldover; in other words, that it should not be lawful for a slave to existas a slave in any of our possessions. But they had a hard and steadyfight for years and years in pursuit of their great object. Patience, faith, calm courage, perseverance, these were the noble constituents oftheir moral heroism. Thomas Clarkson, from youth to manhood, frommanhood to old age, devoted himself unreservedly to the one greatpurpose of obtaining freedom and justice for the oppressed negro. Hiswork was to collect information, to spread it on all sides, to agitatethe question of the abolition of slavery throughout the United Kingdomand the world. William Wilberforce's place in the work was different. His part was to introduce Clarkson's plans to the notice of Parliament, and to advocate them with his wonderful eloquence, and to persevere inthat advocacy with untiring zeal and love. When he called the attentionof the House of Commons to the question of the slave-trade in 1788 hewas met by the most determined opposition. Men's worldly interests werearrayed in arms against the abolition. The traffic in slaves broughtmillions of money to the British coffers. So the case appeared for atime to be hopeless. But this made no difference to Wilberforce--hiscourage never failed; his resolution never wavered; year after year hebrought forward the subject, and, though he experienced eleven defeatsin his endeavours to carry the measure, at last he triumphed. And theresult was the termination of slavery in the British dominions in August1834, and that, too, at a cost to the country of twenty millions ofmoney as compensation to those who, at the time, were holders ofproperty in slaves. All honour to Clarkson and Wilberforce, for theirswas a noble victory, a grand result of the unwavering, unflinching moralcourage of those two moral heroes. "

"A thousand cheers for them, auntie!" cried Walter. Then turning to hisbrother, he added, "So you see, Amos, you must not lose heart; indeed, Iknow you won't. Things will come nicely round, as Harry said. Myfather, I am sure, will understand and appreciate you in time; and Ishall have to erect a triumphal arch with flowers and evergreens overthe front door, with this motto in letters of gold at the top, `Amos andmoral courage for ever. '"

"I don't know, " said his brother rather sadly; "I trust things may comeround as you say. But anyhow, I mean, with God's help, to persevere;and it is a great happiness for me to know that I have the sympathy ofmy dear aunt and brother. "

Not many days after this conversation, when the family were atbreakfast, Mr Huntingdon asked Walter when the steeplechase was comingoff. 

"Three weeks to-morrow, I believe, " replied his son. "By-the-by, Ithink I ought to mention that Saunders wants me to be one of theriders. "

"You!" exclaimed his father in astonishment. 

"Yes, father; he says I am the best rider of my age anywhere round, andthat I shall stand a good chance of coming in at the head of them. "

"Very likely that may be the opinion of Mr Robert Saunders, " repliedthe squire; "but I can only say I wish you were not quite so friendlywith that young man; you know it was he who led you into that scrapewith poor Forester. "

"Ah, but, father, Bob wasn't to blame. You know I took the blame onmyself, and that was putting it on the right shoulders. There's no harmin Bob; there are many worse fellows than he is. "

"But perhaps, " said Miss Huntingdon, "he may not be a very desirablecompanion for all that. "

"Perhaps not, auntie. --Well, father, if you don't mind my riding thistime, I'll try and keep a little more out of his way in future. "

"I think you had better, my boy; you are not likely to gain much eitherin reputation or pocket by the acquaintance. You know it was only theother day that he helped to let you in for losing a couple of sovereignsin that wretched affair on Marley Heath; and one of them was lost toabout the biggest blackguard anywhere hereabouts. I think, my boy, itis quite time that you kept clear of such things. "

"Indeed, father. I almost think so too; and, at any rate, you won'tfind me losing any more sovereigns to Jim Jarrocks. But I'm almostpledged to Saunders to ride in this steeplechase. It will be capitalfun, and no harm, and perhaps I may never have another chance. "

"I had rather you didn't, " said his father; "anyhow, your friendSaunders must find you a horse for I am not going to have one of minespoilt again, and your own pony would make but a poor figure in asteeplechase. "

"All right, father, " replied Walter, and the conversation passed on toanother subject. 

The three weeks came and went; the steeplechase came off, and Walter wasone of the riders. The admired of all eyes, he for a time surmountedall difficulties. At last, in endeavouring to clear an unusually wideditch, he was thrown, and his horse so badly injured that the pooranimal had to be shot. Walter himself, though stunned and bruised, wasnot seriously hurt, and was able to return home in time for dinner. 

The party had assembled in the drawing-room, all but Mr Huntingdon. Five minutes--ten--a quarter of an hour past the usual time, but thesquire had not made his appearance. At last his step was heard rapidlyapproaching. Then he flung the door hastily open, and rushed into theroom, his face flushed, and his chest heaving with anger. Striding upto Walter, he exclaimed: "So this is the end of your folly anddisobedience. You go contrary to my orders, knowing that I would nothave you take part in the steeplechase; you ruin another man's horseworth some three hundred guineas; and then you come home, just as ifnothing had happened, and expect me, I suppose, to pay the bill. Butyou may depend upon it I shall do nothing of the sort. "

No one spoke for a few minutes. Then Walter stammered out that he wasvery sorry. 

"Sorry, indeed!" cried his father; "that's poor amends. But it seemsI'm to have nothing but disobedience and misery from my children. "

"Dear Walter, " said his sister gently, "are you not a little hard uponthe poor boy?"

"Hard, Kate?--poor boy?--nonsense! You're just like all the rest, spoiling and ruining him by your foolish indulgence. He's to be master, it seems, of the whole of us, and I may as well give up the managementof the estate and of my purse into his hands. "

Miss Huntingdon ventured no reply; she felt that it would be wiser tolet the first violence of the storm blow by. But now Amos rose, andapproached his father, and confronted him, looking at him calmly andsteadily. Never before had that shy, reserved young man been seen tolook his father so unflinchingly in the face. Never, when his ownpersonal character or comfort had been at stake, had he dreamt of somuch as a remonstrance. He had left it to others to speak for him, orhad submitted to wrong or neglect without murmuring. How different wasit now! How strange was the contrast between the wild flashing eyes ofthe old man, and the deeply tranquil, thoughtful, and even spiritualgaze of the son! Before that gaze the squire's eyes lost their fire, his chest ceased to heave, he grew calm. 

"What's the meaning of this?" he asked in a hoarse voice. 

"Father, " said Amos slowly, "I am persuaded that you are not doing fulljustice to dear Walter. I must say a word for him. I do not think hisgoing and riding in the steeplechase was an act of direct disobedience. I think your leave was implied when you said that at any rate he mustnot look to you for a horse. I know that you would have preferred hisnot going, and so must he have known, but I do not think that he waswrong in supposing that you had not absolutely forbidden him. "

"Indeed!" said Mr Huntingdon dryly and sarcastically, after a pause ofastonishment; "and may I ask where the three hundred guineas are to comefrom? for I suppose the borrowed horse will have to be paid for. "

"Father, " said Walter humbly, and with tears in his eyes and a tremor inhis voice, "I know the horse must be paid for, because it was notSaunders's own; he borrowed it for me, and I know that he cannot affordthe money. But it's an exaggeration that three hundred guineas; thehorse was really worth about a hundred pounds. "

"It makes no matter, " replied his father, but now with less ofirritation in his voice, "whether it was worth three hundred guineas orone hundred pounds. I want to know who is going to pay for it, forcertainly _I_ am not. "

"You must stop it out of my allowance, " said Walter sorrowfully. 

"And how many years will it take to pay off the debt, then, I shouldlike to know?" asked his father bitterly. 

Again there was a few moments' silence. But now Amos stepped forwardonce more, and said quietly, "Father, I will take the debt upon myself. "

"_You_, Amos!" exclaimed all his three hearers, but in very differenttones. 

Poor Walter fairly broke down, sobbing like a child, and then threwhimself into his brother's arms and kissed him warmly. Mr Huntingdonwas taken quite aback, and tried in vain to hide his emotion. MissHuntingdon wept bright tears of gladness, for she saw that Amos wasmaking progress with his father, and getting nearer to his heart. 

"There, then, " said her brother with trembling voice, "we must make thebest of a bad job. --Walter, don't let's have any more steeplechases. --Amos, my dear boy, I've said I wouldn't pay, so I must stick to it, butwe'll make up the loss to you in some way or other. "

"All right, dear father, " replied Amos, hardly able to speak forgladness. Never for years past had Mr Huntingdon called him "dear. "That one word from his father was worth the whole of the hundred poundsto him twice over. 

The squire had business with one of the tenants in the library thatevening, so his sister and her two nephews were alone in the drawing-room after dinner. 

"Aunt, " said Walter, "look at my hands; do you know what this means?"His hands were crossed on his knees. 

"I think I do, " she replied with a smile; "but do you tell me yourself. "

"Why, it means this, --_I_ am going to bring forward for our generaledification an example of moral courage to-night, and my hero is no lessa person than Martin Luther; and there is _my_ Martin Luther. " As hesaid this he placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, and looked athim with a bright and affectionate smile. "Yes, he is my Martin Luther:only, instead of his being brought before a `Diet of Worms, ' a verysubstantial _diet_ of fish, flesh, and fowl has just been brought before_him_; and instead of having to appear before the Emperor Charles theFifth, he is now appearing before Queen Katharine the First of FlixworthManor. "

Both his hearers laughed heartily and happily; then he added: "Now I amgoing to trot out my hero--nay, that word `trot' won't do; I've had toomuch of both trotting and galloping lately. But what I mean is, I wantto show you what it is that I specially admire in my hero, and how thisexactly fits in with my dear hero-brother Amos. Ah! I see he wants tostop me, but, dear Aunt Kate, you must use your royal authority and backme up; and when I have done, you can put in what notes and comments andaddenda and corrigenda you like, and tell me if I have not just hit theright nail on the head. 

"Very well; now I see you are all attention. Martin Luther--wasn't he agrand fellow? Just look at him as he is travelling up to the Diet ofWorms. As soon as the summons came to him, his mind was made up; he didnot delay for a moment. People crowded about him and talked of_danger_, but Luther talked about _duty_. He set out in a waggon, withan imperial herald before him. His journey was like a triumphalprocession. In every town through which he passed, young and old cameout of their doors to wonder at him, and bless him, and tell him to beof good courage. At last he has got to Oppenheim, not far from Worms, and his friends do their very best to frighten him and keep him back;but he tells them that if he should have to encounter at Worms as manydevils as there were tiles on the houses of that city, he would not bekept from his purpose. Ah! that was a grand answer. And then, when hegot to his lodgings, what a sight it must have been! They were crowdedinside and out with all classes and all kinds of persons, --soldiers, clergy, knights, peasants, nobles by the score, citizens by thethousand. And then came the grand day of all, the day after hisarrival. He was sent for into the council-hall. What a sight that musthave been for the poor monk! There was the young emperor himself, Charles the Fifth, in all his pomp and splendour, and two hundred of hisprinces and nobles. Why, it would have taken the breath out of a dozensuch fellows as I am to have to stand up and speak up for what I knew tobe right before such a company. But Luther did speak up; and there wasno swagger about him either. They asked him to recant, and he beggedtime to consider of it. They met again next day, and then he refused torecant, with great gentleness. `Show me that I have done wrong, ' hesaid, `and I will submit: until I am better instructed I cannot recant;it is not wise, it is not safe for a man to do anything against hisconscience. Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise. God help me. Amen. 'There, auntie, don't you agree with me in giving the crown of moralcourage to Martin Luther? It's an old story, and I've learned it quiteby heart, for I was always fond of it, but it is none the less true onthat account. "

"Yes, Walter, clear boy, " replied his aunt, "I must heartily agree withyou, and acknowledge that you have made a most excellent choice of ahero in Martin Luther. Not a doubt of it, he was a truly great and goodman, a genuine moral hero. For a man who can be satisfied with nothingless than what is real and right; who is content to count all thingsloss for the attainment of a spiritual aim, and to fight for it againstall enemies; who does his duty spite of all outward contradiction; andwho reverences his conscience so greatly that he will face anydifficulty and submit to any penalty rather than do violence to it, thatis a truly great man, exhibiting a superb example of moral courage. Andsuch a man, no doubt, was Martin Luther; and I believe I can see why youhave chosen him just now, but you must tell me why yourself. "

"I will, Aunt Kate. You see we are in Worms now. This is the council-hall; before dinner to-day was the time of meeting; and my dear fatherwas in his single person the august assembly. Amos, the best ofbrothers to the worst of brothers, is Martin Luther. He might have kepthimself to himself, but he comes forward. It is the hardest thingpossible for him to speak; if he had consulted his own feelings he wouldhave spared himself a mighty struggle, and have left his scamp of abrother to get out of the scrape as best he could. But he stands up asbrave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb, and looks as calm as if he weremade of sponge-biscuits instead of flesh and blood. He ventures toaddress the august assembly--I mean my father--in a way he never did inall his life before, and never would have done if he had been speakingfor himself; but it was duty that was prompting him, it was love thatwas nerving him, it was unselfishness that made him bold. And so he hasshown himself the bravest of the brave; and I hope the brother for whomhe has done and suffered all this, if he has any shame left in him, willlearn to copy him, as he already learned to respect and admire him. There, Aunt Kate, I've been, and gone, and said it. "

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

PERPLEXING. 

Many months had rolled by since Amos had undertaken to pay for the horsewhich his brother had unhappily ruined in the steeplechase. MrHuntingdon never alluded to the matter again, but the difference in hismanner towards his elder son was so marked that none could fail toobserve it. There were both respect and affection in his voice when headdressed him, and the poor young man's naturally grave face lighted upas with a flood of sunshine when his father thus spoke to him. MissHuntingdon, of course, rejoiced in this change with all her heart. Walter was as pleased and proud at it as if some special honours werebeing conferred on himself. And old Harry--it was a sight worth seeingto observe the old servant when his master spoke kindly to Amos: whatwith winking and nodding, opening wide his eyes, lifting his eyebrows, rolling his tongue about, and certain inward volcanic mutterings, allconstituting a little bit of private acting for his own special andpeculiar benefit, it might have been thought by those who did not knowhim that something had been passing at the moment causing a temporaryderangement of his digestive organs. But Miss Huntingdon, as she markedhis mysterious conduct, was perfectly aware that it simply meant anexpression on his part--principally for the relief of his own feelings, and partly also to give a hint to those who might care to know how hefelt in the matter--that things were "coming round nicely, " and that MrAmos would get his proper place and his rights given him in the family, and would in due time accomplish his great purpose. 

Amos himself began to be much of the same opinion, and was greatlytouched by receiving a cheque from his father for a hundred pounds onemorning, with the assurance that he did not wish him to be out of pocketon Walter's account, while at the same time the squire neither mentionedthe steeplechase himself nor allowed Amos to refer to it. The money wasnow his own, he remarked, and the less said about where it was going tothe better. 

A new year had now begun, and deep snow lay around the Manor-house. Thefamily party had assembled at breakfast, all except Miss Huntingdon andAmos. The former at last appeared, but there was trouble on her brow, which Walter, who loved her dearly, instantly noticed. 

"Auntie dear, " he asked, "what's amiss? I'm sure you are not well thismorning. "

"I am a little upset, dear boy, " she replied, "but it is nothingserious. "

"I hope not, Kate, " said her brother. "But where is Amos?"

"Well, Walter, " replied his sister, "that is just it. I have a notefrom him this morning asking me to excuse him to you; that duty hascalled him away, and that I shall understand in what direction this dutylies. I can only hope that nothing serious is amiss; but this I amquite sure of, that Amos would never have gone off in this abrupt wayhad there not been some pressing cause. "

Mr Huntingdon did not speak for a while, his thoughts were evidentlytroubling him. He remembered the last occasion of his son's suddenabsence, and was now well aware that it had been care for his poorerring child's neglected little ones that had then called Amos away. Perhaps it might be so now. Perhaps that daughter herself, against whomhis heart and home had been closed so long, might be ill or even dying. Perhaps she was longing for a father's smile, a father's expressedforgiveness. His heart felt very sore, and his breakfast lay untastedbefore him. 

As for Walter, he knew not what to say or think. He dared not speak hisfears out loud lest he should wound his father, whose distress he couldnot help seeing. He would have volunteered to do anything andeverything, only he did not know exactly where to begin or what topropose. At length Mr Huntingdon, turning to the old butler, who wasmoving about in a state of great uneasiness, said, "Do you know, Harry, at what hour Mr Amos left this morning?"

"No, sir, not exactly. But when Jane came down early and went to openthe front door, she found the chain and the bolts drawn and the keyturned back. It was plain that some one had gone out that way veryearly. "

"And when did you get your note from Amos, Kate?" asked her brother. 

"My maid found it half slipped under my door when she came to call me, "was the reply. 

"And is there nothing, then, to throw light on this sudden and strangeact on Amos's part?" asked the squire. 

"Well, there is, " she answered rather reluctantly. "My maid has found alittle crumpled up sheet of paper, which Amos must have accidentallydropped as he left his room. I don't know whether I ought to have takencharge of it; but, as it is, the best thing I can do is to hand it toyou. "

Mr Huntingdon took it from her, and his hand shook with emotion as heglanced at it. It was a small sheet of note-paper, and there waswriting on two sides in a female hand, but the lines were uneven, and itseemed as though the writer had been, for some reason or other, unableto use the pen steadily. Mr Huntingdon hesitated for a moment. Had heany right to read a communication which was addressed to another? Not, surely, under ordinary circumstances. But the circumstances now werenot ordinary; and he was the father of the person to whom the letter wasaddressed, and by reading it he might take steps to preserve his sonfrom harm, or might bring him out of difficulties. So he decided toread the letter, and judge by its contents whether he was bound tosecrecy as to those contents or no. But, as he read, the colour fledfrom his face, and a cold perspiration burst out upon him. What couldthe letter mean? Was the writer sane? And if not, oh, misery! thenthere was a second wreck of reason in the family; for the handwritingwas his daughter's, and the signature at the foot of the paper was herstoo. With heaving breast and tearful eyes he handed the letter to hissister, whose emotion was almost as distressing as his own as she readthe following strange and almost incoherent words:--

"Amos, --I'm mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. Hewill take them both away. He will ruin us all, body and soul. "

Then there was a break. The words hitherto had been written in a steadyhand; those which followed were wavering, as though penned against thewill of the writer, and under fear of some one standing by. They wereas follows:--

"Come to me early to-morrow morning. You will see a man at the fartherside of Marley Heath on horseback--follow him, and he will bring you tome, for I am not where I was. Come alone, or the man will not wait foryou, and then you will never be seen again in this world by yourwretched sister, --Julia. "

Such were the contents of the mysterious letter, which were wellcalculated to stir to their depths the hearts of both the squire and hissister, who looked at each other as those look who become suddenlyconscious of a common misfortune. A spell seemed on their tongues. Atlast the silence was broken by Walter. 

"Dear father! dear auntie!" he exclaimed, "whatever is the matter?"

"Matter enough, I fear, " said his father sadly. --"There, Kate, let himlook at the letter. "

Walter read it, and his eyes filled with tears. Busy thoughts chasedone another through his brain, and very sad and humbling thoughts theywere. He understood now much that had once seemed strange in Amos. Hebegan to appreciate the calm and deep nobility of his character, thetenacity of his grasp on his one great purpose. He gave back the letterto his father with downcast eyes, but without making any remark upon it. 

And now, what was to be done? As soon as breakfast was over, the three, by Mr Huntingdon's desire, met in the library. The letter was laid onthe table before them, and the squire opened the discussion of itscontents by saying to his sister, "What do you make out of thismiserable business, Kate?"

"Plainly enough, " was her reply, "poor Julia is in great distress. Igather that her cruel and base husband has been removing, or intendingto remove, her two children from Amos's charge, and that she is afraidthey will be utterly ruined if they continue in their father's hands. Poor thing! poor thing! I pity her greatly. "

Her brother did not speak for a while, but two big tears fell on hisdaughter's letter, as he bent over it trying to conceal his emotion. "And what do you think about it, my boy?" he said to his son, when hehad in some degree recovered his composure. 

"Aunt Kate is right, no doubt, " replied Walter, "but that is not all. It strikes me that my sister wrote the first part of this letter of herown head, but not the last. I should not wonder if that scamp of afellow her husband has found her out writing, and has forced her to addthe last words, intending to bring poor Amos into trouble some way orother. "

"I believe the boy is right, " said Mr Huntingdon anxiously; "but then, what is to be the next step?"

"Surely, " said his sister, "you ought to send out some one immediatelyto follow up Amos, and see that no harm comes to him. "

"Well, I hardly know, " replied her brother; "I don't think any one woulddare to do Amos any personal injury, and I don't see that it would beanyone's interest to do so. The last time he was called away hereturned to us all right; and perhaps he may feel hurt if we do not lethim manage things in his own way, seeing he has so nobly taken uponhimself the cause of poor--poor"--he would have said "Julia, " but hecould not get out the word--"my poor child. " Here the squire fairlybroke down, covering his face with his hands. 

"Shall we ask Harry, " said his sister, when she could trust herself tospeak, "who brought this note for Amos? that mis-hit give us a littlebit of a clew if it should be necessary to go and find him out. " Harrywas accordingly summoned and questioned. He had already made fullinquiries of the other servants, but none of them could throw any lighton the subject. No one about the premises knew anything about thecarrier of the letter. So it was resolved to wait, in hopes that eitherAmos himself or, at any rate, tidings of him and of his movements wouldarrive some time during the day. Hour, however, passed by after hour, and no news of Amos came to gladden the hearts at the mansion; and whendarkness settled down, and nothing had been heard of the absent one, adeep gloom pervaded the whole household. But of all hearts under thatroof during that long and weary night, none was so heavy as MrHuntingdon's. Memories of the past crowded in upon him; smitings ofconscience deeply troubled him. Had he acted a father's part towardsthat erring daughter? should he have closed the door of home and heartso fast, and kept it barred against her? was she not still his own fleshand blood? and could he justify to himself the iron sternness which hadperhaps now driven her to despair? How could _he_ hope for mercy whohad shown neither mercy nor pity to one whose sinful disobedience andfolly could not make her less his child, though doubtless a sadlymisguided one? When morning came, Mr Huntingdon rose a wiser and ahumbler man. He poured out his heart in prayer for forgiveness of hisown many sins and shortcomings, and then came to a full determination todeal very differently with Amos for the time to come, and to undo hispast treatment of his poor daughter as opportunity might be affordedhim. 

And now we must leave for a while the party at the Manor-house in theirsadness and perplexity, and follow Amos Huntingdon himself. When he hadretired to his room on the night previous to his unexpected departure, he was startled by hearing the sound of what seemed to be earth or smallpebbles thrown against his bedroom window. He paused for a few moments, and the sound was repeated. Then he opened the window slowly, andlooking out, cried, "Who is there?"

All around, the snow lay thick on the ground. His room was on one sideof the house, and its window looked out on a flower-garden, so that anyone approaching the building from that side would not be liable to beobserved by the general inmates of the Manor-house. When Amos had askedwho was there, a short figure, partly muffled up in a cloak, rose fromwhere it had been crouching against the wall, and a man's voice said ina loud whisper, "Is that you, Mr Amos?"

"What do you want with me at this hour?" was the reply. 

"Ah! all right, " rejoined the stranger; "here--catch this. " Sayingwhich, he flung something up at the opening made by the raising of thewindow. "A bad shot, " said the mysterious person half out loud, andwith perfect coolness, as the thing he was throwing fell short of itsmark. "Try again. " Suiting the action to the word, he a second timeaimed at the opening, and now with success. A small packet fell intothe room, and reached the floor with a "thud. "

"All right; good-night, " said the thrower with a chuckle, and soondisappeared through the falling snow, which was now coming down thickly. 

What could be the meaning of this strange performance? Was it somefoolish hoax or practical joke played off by Saunders or Gregson, orsome other of Walter's giddy and not over-considerate companions? Healmost thought it must be so, and that his brother had put them up tothe joke for some wild piece of fun, or to win some senseless wager. Rather vexed at the thought, and not feeling over amiable towards themissile, if such it was, which had come so unseasonably and sounceremoniously into his chamber, he was half inclined at first to throwit back through the window on to the snow. And yet, perhaps, he hadbetter see what it was. So he took it from the floor. It was a littlebrown paper parcel, about three inches square, and very heavy for itssize. His curiosity was now excited. He opened the packet warily, lestit should contain something explosive, such as might cause a report, notdangerous in itself, but calculated to alarm the family. There wasnothing, however, of such a kind, but merely a flat piece of thick tile, with a sheet of note-paper doubled round it. 

Rather annoyed at the folly of the whole thing, he slowly unfolded thepaper, and opened it out. The writing struck him at once; it was hissister's. The contents of the letter staggered him. That his sisterhad written it there could be no doubt. That she was in grievoustrouble, and that her villainous husband had violated his pledge and wasremoving the children out of his reach, was equally plain. Theappearance of the closing portion of the note puzzled him. He had hismisgivings about it. Had his sister's husband anything to do with it, and with making the appointment on Marley Heath? It might or might notbe so. The changed appearance of the latter part of the writing mightonly be the result of agitation or distress on his sister's part. But, anyhow, what was the course that duty and brotherly love bade him nowtake? A lonely meeting in the snow with a solitary horseman on MarleyHeath early in the morning did not read very pleasantly nor appear verysafe; and yet, could he leave his poor sister to her misery? If heshould do so, what evils might not follow? and what would come of thegreat purpose to which he had dedicated his life and energies? Was thisa time for fear or shrinking back? No, surely. So he knelt down andasked for guidance of him who is unerring Wisdom to every one of hischildren. And then he retired to rest, and slept soundly till earlymorning. 

His mind was made up. Having written a few lines to his aunt, he madehis way quietly out of the house to the stable, and, mounting his ownfaithful pony, sallied forth. He had, however, dropped his sister'snote by his own room door without being aware of it, and did not missit, for his mind was full of engrossing thoughts. It was a bright andsparkling morning; the snow had been falling more or less for the lastfew days, and had in some places formed deep drifts, as a strong windhad been blowing from the north for some hours. But now all was calmand bright for the present, though the distant horizon seemed tothreaten a further downfall before long. 

Amos had clothed himself warmly, for the cold was now severe. Hisgreat-coat, also, which he had gathered close round him, contained inits ample pockets some cakes, oranges, and sweeties--a stock of which healways kept on hand in his own room for the benefit of his niece andnephew whenever he might happen to visit them at the cottage. On thepresent occasion, it is true, he had no expectation of meeting thechildren, but only their mother; but he brought these little luxurieswith him notwithstanding, as they might perhaps be welcome to his poorsister, who was not likely to be furnished with more than the barenecessaries of life by the man who, though bound to care for hercomfort, would no doubt wrench from her every penny he was able. 

With noiseless tread, then, did Prince the pony carry his young masteralong the dazzling white roads, shaking his ears and his head from timeto time, as though in wonder at what could have induced his owner tobring him out so early. Amos had, however, not neglected the pooranimal, but had given him a good feed before starting, having himselfalso made such an early meal as the pantry could provide him. So thetwo jogged quietly on; and whatever misgivings the young man might havefrom time to time, these were more than outweighed by the abidingconviction that he was on the path of love and duty, and might thereforeexpect to be guided and preserved by Him to whom he had committed hiscause. Still, there was something overawing in the solitude of thatearly ride. Not a person did he meet as he threaded his way through thelanes. The moon was some days past the full, and shone with almostundiminished light on the sparkling crystals of snow. Spikes of hoar-frost bristled on the branches of the trees, and here and there a longgaunt group of icicles, dependent from an overhanging rock, gleamed andflashed in the pale light as he passed along. 

And now, when he had accomplished some three miles--which was about halfthe distance to the heath--he emerged from a winding road which had ledhim through a copse on to high ground, from which he had an almostpanoramic view of the surrounding country. He checked his pony andlooked about him. How exquisitely fair and pure was that landscape, onevast expanse of spotless white! Not a breath of wind was now stirring, and, struggling against the moonlight, the first flushes of a winter'sdawn crept up along the far-off eastern sky. Everything spoke of peaceand purity. God's hand had clothed the earth, the trees with astainless robe of majestic beauty studded with countless flashing gems. Man's works were hidden or but dimly seen here and there, with all theirimperfections withdrawn from sight under that snowy veil. And manhimself was absent. An all-absorbing sense of the nearness of God stoleover the young traveller's heart, so deep, so unearthly as to be almostpainful, but, oh, so full of blessedness! What should make him afraid, with God so near? And then there unfolded themselves to his memory thewords, "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thyGod: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will upholdthee with the right hand of my righteousness. " Amos bowed his head, andremained wrapt for a while in holy and happy meditation. 

But he had a work before him, and must move on. At last he reachedMarley Heath. Hitherto he had seen no human being, nor indeed anyliving thing except a hare which once crossed his path. The heath wasextensive, and had many pathways through it. All, however, were nowmore or less covered with snow, though here and there the wind hadexposed a bare spot, and a large pond on one side glowed in the light ofthe now rising sun. Riding slowly across the wide common, Amos lookedfor some time in vain for the person whom he was to meet, and it wasalmost with a feeling of relief that he contemplated the possibility ofno one appearing. The air was sharp and clear now, and, as he gazed onall sides, an inward shrinking from the proposed meeting came over him;and then again the consciousness that he was on duty's path nerved himfor whatever might be before him. He had not long to wait. First heheard the far-off faint barking of a dog, and in a few minutesafterwards a horseman made his appearance coming up on to the heath fromthe opposite quarter to that by which he himself had reached it. Thestranger was manifestly in no hurry, but allowed his horse, a big, gaunt, and seedy-looking animal, to take its own time, which clearly wasnot a very rapid one. The costume of the new-comer was in keeping withthe appearance of his steed, being ample but considerably the worse forwear. As the two riders slowly approached each other, Amos recognisedhis brother-in-law, Mr Orlando Vivian, --there could be no doubt aboutit. A theatrical salute on the other's part was answered by Amos with aquiet inclination of his head. 

"Your servant, friend, " then said Mr Vivian in a free and easy manner;"a fine winter's morning you bring with you, though I think we shallhave more snow. "

"Good morning, " returned Amos, not knowing what else to say, and feelingfar from comfortable. 

When they had remained facing each other for a minute, during which thedark malicious eyes of the player sent a shudder through his companion, the former said, "You are come to see your sister, I presume; at anyrate this meeting is clearly by appointment made for that purpose. Shall we proceed?"

"Yes, " replied Amos, but with some hesitation in his tone of voice. 

"Ah, I understand, " said the other; "you were expecting to be conductedto a _tete-a-tete_. You didn't anticipate meeting a brother-in-law aswell as a sister, --is it not so?"

Amos hardly knew what to reply, for the bantering air and words of hiscompanion filled him with disgust and repugnance. --"Oh, I see it all--it's perfectly natural, " said Mr Vivian sarcastically; "but set yourmind at ease on that point, Mr Huntingdon. As soon as you reach thehouse you will cease to be troubled with my company; nay, I shall not gowith you beyond the door. "

"I am ready, " said Amos calmly. 

"Good, then follow me, " said the other; and both descended from theheath, and, striking at once out of the more frequented paths, madetheir way through brier and brushwood till Amos had entirely lost allknowledge of where he was. They had ridden thus about two miles whenthey suddenly emerged on to some cleared ground, and then came to theside of a large brick-field which had been for some time disused. Atone end of the field was a small two-roomed cottage substantially builtof rough stone. This had been inhabited formerly by a labourer and hisfamily, the man having been a sort of overlooker while the brick-makingwas going on. Of course there was a standstill to the manufacture atpresent, but, to the surprise of Amos, smoke was coming out of thecottage chimney. He was surprised, because, as they rode close up tothe building, it looked the last place likely to have a tenant at thepresent time. Its extreme loneliness also struck him, there being noother building in sight anywhere. As they came just opposite to itsouter door, Mr Vivian turned to Amos, and said with a malicious smile, "This, sir, is the house. "

"This!" exclaimed the young man, indignant and horrified, --"this thehouse where my poor sister lives!"

"Even so, " was the reply; "any roof to cover you this severe season issurely better than none. "

"It cannot be, " said Amos; but at that moment the door half opened, anda woman's hand and part of her dress appeared. Then the door wasrapidly closed, and he heard from within the sound of weeping andwailing. "It must be so, then, " he exclaimed sadly, and proceeded todismount. 

"Don't trouble about your pony, " said the player, "I will look afterhim. Give me the bridle. " Amos did so, and was entering by the lowmassive door, when to his astonishment a female figure pushed past himinto the open air. Then the door was closed upon him, thrusting himforward into the building, while Vivian cried out with a laugh, "_Aurevoir, mon ami_--farewell for the present!" The next moment the doorwas locked, and some heavy weight jammed against it. What could it allmean?

Utterly overwhelmed with dismay, Amos stood for a while as thoughchained to the spot. Then, opening a door which divided the outermostapartment from the other room, he entered the latter and looked roundhim. No one was there, neither man, woman, nor child. The walls werevery thick, and the room was lighted by a large leaded casement whichwould open, but there were stout iron bars which would make it next toimpossible for any one to get into the cottage that way or escape fromit. A fire of wood burned on the hearth, and a small pile of logs washeaped up against the wall near it. On a rough square oak table lay ahuge loaf of bread, a considerable mass of cheese, and a quart jug ofmilk. There was neither chair nor bed in the place. Hurrying into theouter room, Amos found that it was dimly lighted by a very narrow littlewindow, which even a dog could scarcely creep through. There were noupstairs rooms in the cottage. And thus Amos found himself baselyentrapped and taken prisoner. And what for? For no good purpose hefelt fully assured. He threw open the casement of the inner room andlooked out. There was his late companion riding slowly off, and by hisside, mounted on his own pony Prince, a female figure. Could that behis sister? and, if so, whither was she going? and what was theirpurpose, or his wretched betrayer's purpose, with him?

Miserably bewildered, and much cast down, he knelt him down by the tableand poured out his care in prayer. That he was in the power of anutterly unscrupulous villain was plain enough, --and what, then, could hedo? He had brought with him a small pocket New Testament, with whichthe Psalms were also bound up, for he had hoped to have read from it tohis sister words that might have been of use and comfort to her. Butthat was not to be. However, he turned over the leaves, and his eyesfell on a verse which he had often read before, but never with so muchhappy thankfulness as now: "What time I am afraid, I will trust inthee. "

"Ah, yes, " he said aloud, "these words are just sent to me now. _Iwill_ put my trust in Him, for he knows where I am and what errand I amon, and I know that he will deliver me out of this trouble. "

Calmed by these thoughts, he once more looked round him. There was ashelf by the fire-place which he had not noticed before. Something layon it; it was a small desk. Perhaps it belonged to his sister, andmight throw some light on his difficulties. He took it down and placedit on the table. The key was in the lock. He opened it, and his eyefell at once on an envelope directed, "Amos Huntingdon, Esquire, " butnot in his sister's hand. Having undone the envelope, he drew out itscontents. These consisted of a note and a blank cheque. The note wasas follows:--

"Dear Brother-in-Law, --You have money, and I have none. I want moneyvery much, and you can spare it. I enclose a blank cheque, which I havemanaged to procure from your bankers. Please fill it up for a hundredpounds. I am sorry to trouble you, but `necessity has no law, ' as theold proverb says. I shall call to-night at the window for the cheque. You will find pen and ink in the desk. Pardon my little bit ofeccentricity in bringing you here. When I have got the cheque you willsoon be at liberty again, and none the worse, I trust, for your shortcaptivity. I don't wish to proceed to extremities with a relation, butthe money I _must_ have. Only let me get the cheque, and then, as thepoet says, `My native land, good-night;' I shall trouble you and yoursno more. --Your affectionate brother-in-law, Vivian. "

The cool audacity of this letter was perfectly staggering to Amos. Andyet there was no mistaking the writer's meaning and intentions. It wasplain that the reckless adventurer was resolved to extort money from hiswife's brother, whom he had succeeded in entrapping, and thatremonstrance would be of very little avail with such a character. Thatthe wretched man would do him serious bodily injury Amos did not thinkprobable, but that he would use any pressure short of this seemedtolerably certain. On thinking it over, the young man came to theconviction that his unhappy relation, being hard up for money, andintending probably to go abroad with the help of this hundred pounds, had compelled his sister to write the latter part of her letter, and hadthen employed some unprincipled female associate to act as hisconfederate. No doubt he had calculated that it might be a day or twobefore Amos's friends would become alarmed at his absence, and probablya day or two more before they discovered his prison, especially as thesnow would make it more difficult to trace him. In the meantime hetrusted to be able so to play upon the fears of Amos, and to wear himout by scanty food and rough lodging, that, sooner than continue in suchdurance, he would sign the cheque for the amount demanded. 

Such was the view that Amos took of the matter, and now came thequestion what he was to do. He had money enough at his bankers to meetthe cheque, and no doubt his father would help him when he knew all thecircumstances; but then, was it right to give the man this money? Washe justified in doing so, and thus encouraging a villain in hisvillainy? The more he thought the matter over, the more firmly hebecame persuaded that, so long as his own life was not seriouslythreatened and endangered, he ought to hold out against this infamousdemand, and be ready to endure days of privation, suffering, andloneliness, rather than give in to what he was persuaded would be wrong-doing. After much thought and prayer, he came to the decision that hewould not give the cheque, but would leave it to God to deliver him, howand when he pleased. 

Perfectly calmed by this act of self-committal into his heavenlyFather's keeping, he sat down by the fire on a seat which he had raisedby piling some of the logs together, and prepared for a long spell ofwaiting. Whatever others might think, he was sure that his aunt wouldnot be content to let more than one night pass without sending out toseek for him, and by this assurance he was greatly comforted. Hisbread, cheese, and milk, carefully husbanded, would last him two orthree days, and for anything beyond that he did not feel it needful totake any forethought. 

Slowly and wearily did the long hours drag on as he paced up and downthe room, or sat by the flickering logs, which threw out but a moderatedegree of heat. His frugal meals were soon despatched, and at lastevening came. He had tried the bars of his window more than once, buthis utmost exertion of strength could not shake one of them. No; hemust abide in that prison until released from without. And then hethought of noble prisoners for conscience' sake, --Daniel, and Paul, andBunyan, and many a martyr and confessor, --and he felt that he wassuffering in good company. It was just getting dusk when there came arap at the window. He opened the casement. The face of his crueljailer was there. 

"The cheque, " said Mr Vivian, with what was meant to be a winningsmile. "Your pony is close by, and I will let you out in a minute. Thecheque, if you please. "

"I cannot give it, " was the reply. 

"Indeed!" said the other, raising his eyebrows, and displaying fully theevil light of his wicked eyes. "Ah! is it so? Well, if you like yourfare and your quarters so well that you are loath to leave them, it isnot for me to draw you away from such sumptuous hospitality and suchagreeable society. Farewell. Good-night. I will call to-morrowmorning, in the hopes that a night's rest in this noble mansion may leadyou to arrive at a different conclusion. Pleasant dreams to you. " Sosaying, with a discordant chuckle he left the window, and the poorprisoner had to make the best of the situation for the night. 

Adding another log to the fire, and wrapping his great-coat together fora couch, with the upper part raised over two or three logs for a pillow, he resigned himself to rest, and, much to his surprise, slept prettysoundly till daybreak. His morning devotions over, and his scantybreakfast eaten, he waited for the return of his brother-in-law withvery mingled feelings. About nine o'clock he appeared, and greeted Amoswith the hope that he had passed a good night and felt quite himselfthis morning. Amos replied that he was thankful to say that he hadslept as well or better than he expected, and that he only wished thathis brother-in-law had had as soft a pillow to lie on as himself hadenjoyed. 

"Dear me, " said the other sneeringly, "I was not aware that theestablishment was provided with such luxuries. Pray, of what materialsmay this pillow of yours have been made?"

"Of the promises of God, " said Amos solemnly; "and I can only regret, Mr Vivian, that you will not abandon those ways which God cannot bless, and seek your peace and happiness, as you may do, in your Saviour'sservice. Why should you not? He has a place in his loving heart foryou. "

"Is the sermon over, Mr Parson?" asked the other with a snarl. "Oh, very good; and now, let us come to business again. What about thecheque? Is it ready?"

"I cannot give it, " was Amos's reply. "I should be wrong to give it. Ishould only be encouraging evil, and that I dare not do. "

"Be it so, " said the other; "then, remember, you must take theconsequences. "

"I am in God's hands, " replied Amos, "and am prepared to take them. "

"Good again, " said his persecutor. "Once more, then, I come. Thisnight, before sunset, I must have the cheque, or else you must abide theconsequences. "

No more was said, and the young man was again left to his solitude. Hadhe done right? Yes; he had no doubt on the subject. And now he mustprepare himself for what might be his lot, for he had no thought ofchanging his resolution not to sign the cheque. Having fortifiedhimself by spreading out his case before the Lord in prayer, andstrengthened himself physically by eating and drinking a small portionof his now nearly exhausted provisions, he once more examined everyplace through which it might be possible for him to make his escape, butin vain. Last of all he looked up the chimney, but felt that he couldnot attempt to make his way out in that direction. He must just waitthen; and he turned to some of those promises in the Psalms which arespecially encouraging to those who wait, and a strange, unearthly peacestole into his heart. 

Noon had passed, but not a sound broke the stillness except the drip, drip from the roof, for a thaw had set in. Three o'clock came. Whatwas that sound? Was the end nearer than he expected? Had his brother-in-law, in his impatience, come earlier than he had said? No. Therewas the welcome tone of a young voice crying out to some one else. ThenAmos sprang to the window, and, opening the casement, shouted out. In afew moments Walter's face met his brother's. "Here he is! here he is!"he screamed out. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" Old Harry came round to thebarred window, and, lifting up his hands and eyes, exclaimed, "The Lordbe praised!" Then followed rapid questionings. But to these Amosreplied, "You shall know all by-and-by; but now I must ask you to set mefree. I am a prisoner here. The only outside door is locked, and Icannot undo it; and these bars, which I have tried in vain to force, have prevented my escape this way. "--"All right, " said his brother. "Come along, Harry. "

The two went round to the door and shook it, but to no purpose. A heavylog had also been jammed down against it. This, by their unitedstrength, they with difficulty removed. Again they tried to wrench openthe door, but without effect, for it was a huge and ponderous structure, and they could make nothing of it. "Harry must ride over to the nearestvillage and fetch a blacksmith, " said Walter, when he had returned tothe window. "Tell him to be quick then, and to bring two or three menwith him, for there is danger before us. I cannot tell you morenow. "--"I'll tell him, " replied his brother; and the old servantdeparted with all speed on his errand. Then Walter came back to thewindow, and talked long and earnestly with Amos, telling him of the deepconcern felt by his aunt and father on account of his prolonged absence. "But, " he added, "I'm not going to tell you now how we found you. Wewill keep that till we get home, and then shan't we have a regular pourout?"

Wearied at last with waiting, Walter began to make another assault onthe front door. It was now getting a little dusk, and he was hoping forHarry's return with the men; so, as he said, partly to see what he coulddo by himself, and partly to keep himself warm, he proceeded to showerupon the stubborn oak a perfect hail of blows and kicks. He was in thevery thick of this performance when he was suddenly made aware that ahorseman was close to him. He therefore stopped his excitingoccupation, and looked round. The horseman was tall, and of a verysinister expression of countenance, with piercing black eyes. He wasalso rather fantastically but shabbily dressed. 

"What is all this noise about, young gentleman?" asked the stranger. "Why are you battering my property in that wild fashion?"

"Because, " replied Walter, rather taken aback by this question, "mybrother has been fastened in here by some scoundrel, and I want to gethim out. "

"You must be dreaming, or mad, my young friend, " said the rider; "whowould ever think of making a prisoner of your brother in such a place?"

"It's a fact for all that, " replied Walter. "He's in there, and he mustbe got out. I've sent for a blacksmith and some men from the nearestvillage to burst open the door, and I expect them here directly. "

"I can save them that trouble, " said the other. "I keep a few oddthings--implements and things of that sort--in this cottage of mine, andif by some strange accident your brother has got locked in here, I shallbe only too happy to let him out. " So saying, he dismounted, and, having hung his horse's bridle over a staple projecting from the stonewall, produced a large key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door, andthrew it wide open. 

Walter rushed in and flung his arms round his brother, who gazed at himin some bewilderment, hardly expecting so speedy a release. Then bothcame to the outside of the building. The stranger had remounted; andthen, looking the brothers steadily in the face, he made a low bow, andwith the words, "Good-evening, gentlemen; I wish you a safe and pleasantjourney home, " turned round, and trotted briskly away. 

"Did you notice that man's face?" asked Amos of his brother in a halfwhisper. "Should you know it again?"--"Anywhere all the world over, "was the reply. --"Ah, well, " said the other, "I shall have strange thingsto tell you about him. " The next minute Harry and his party came insight, and, on arriving at the cottage, were astonished and notaltogether pleased to find the prisoner at liberty without theirassistance. However, the pleasure expressed by Harry, and a littlepresent from Walter, as a token of thankfulness for their promptappearance, sent them all home well content. And now Amos had toprepare for his return. 

"You shall have my pony, " said Walter, "and Harry and I will ridedoublets on the old mare. "

To this Amos having assented--"What has become of poor Prince?" heasked. "Does any one know?"

"All right, " said Walter; "Prince is safe at home in the stable. Hemust have a sack of corn all to himself, for when he came in he wasready to eat his head off. You shall hear all about it. "

Having duly clothed himself, Amos was about to mount the pony, when, bethinking himself, he turned back, and secured and brought away thedesk, believing that it might possibly be of use in the way of evidenceby-and-by. Then all set off, and in due time reached Flixworth Manor, to the great joy of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and also of many atenant and neighbour, who were lingering about, hoping for news of thelost one. The first congratulations over, and dinner having beenpartaken of, at which only a passing allusion was made to the troublewhich had terminated so happily, Mr Huntingdon, his sister, and the twoyoung men drew round the drawing-room fire, while Amos gave them a fulland minute account of his strange and distressing adventure. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

MORAL MARTYRDOM. 

When Amos had finished the account of his singular and painfulimprisonment, while all united in an expression of their deepthankfulness, there remained a heavy cloud on the face of MrHuntingdon. At last he said, slowly and sadly, "And this unmitigatedscamp calls our poor Julia wife. "

"It is so, dear father, " said Amos in reply; "but may we not hope thathe will take himself away to America or Australia before long? Thatseems to be what he has in view, for clearly he has made this countrytoo hot to hold him. "

"I only hope it may be so, " rejoined Mr Huntingdon, "for it is amiserable business, look at it which way you will. "

"Yes, " said Walter; "but I am persuaded that my sister was frightened bythe man into writing the last part of that letter;--don't you think so, Amos?"

"Yes, " replied his brother, "I certainly do. He has been plotting thisscheme in order to get me into his power; and when he found that by yourcoming he had failed in his object, he made the best of matters forhimself by pretending to be the owner of the cottage, and to be inignorance of what had happened to me. And now you must tell me how youfound me, and how poor Prince found his way back. "

Walter looked up to see if his father or aunt would give the account, and then, when neither spoke, he plunged at once into his narrative. 

"You must know, then, that we were all much distressed and perplexedwhen my father showed us the letter, Amos, which you accidentallydropped, and which we should none of us have read under ordinarycircumstances. We knew that you felt it to be your duty to go to poorJulia; but we none of us liked the last part of the letter, and I amsure I can say truly that I had my grievous suspicions from the veryfirst. However, when we got the news of your having set off to thismeeting, we could not have prevented it, even if we had thought it rightto do so; it would have been too late then. But we did not think itwould have been right; and auntie comforted us with the assurance thatGod would take care of you, as you were gone on a work he must approveof. So we waited patiently--or, as far as _I_ was concerned, impatiently--all day, and went to bed with heavy hearts when you did notturn up, and we had heard nothing of you. But father reminded us howyou had been absent once before for the night, when you had beensummoned to look after those poor children, and that you had come backall safe; so we hoped that we should see you this morning early, or atany rate before luncheon. 

"And who do you think was our first messenger? Ah! you will hardlyguess. Why, none other than Prince, your pony. We were sitting atbreakfast very dull, and imagining all sorts of things, when Harryhurried into the room, as white as if he had just seen a ghost, andcried out, `Master, master! here's Prince come back all alone, and nevera word about poor dear Master Amos!' You may be sure this did justupset us all, and no mistake. I was out in the stable-yard in a moment, and there was Prince sure enough, and all the servants round him; andthey had got a stable bucket with some corn in it, and he was devouringit as though he had been starved for a week. `And where's your master, Prince?' I said. The poor animal only whinnied, but seemed almost asif he understood my question. As for Harry, who had joined me in theyard, he could only blubber out, `Eh! he's done for, sure enough. They've been and gone and murdered him, and haven't had even the goodfeeling to send us back his lifeless corpse. Whatever shall we do?'`Nay, Harry, ' I said, `it hasn't come to that yet; we must go and lookafter him, and bring him back; he'll turn up all right, Idaresay. '--`The Lord grant it, ' said the dear old man. 

"Well, you may be sure we were all in a pretty state, and at our wits'end what to do. Father set off at once for the police station, andHarry and I started at the same time for Marley Heath. "

Here Miss Huntingdon interposed, and said, "And I ought to tell you, dear Amos, that when your father was feeling a little anxious aboutWalter's going, lest he too should fall into some snare or difficulty, your brother would not hear of any one else taking his place, and rushedaway saying, `It would be a privilege to suffer anything for such abrother as Amos. '"

"Auntie, auntie!" cried her nephew remonstratingly, "you mustn't tellsecrets; I never meant Amos to know anything about that. "

There was a brief silence, for all the party were deeply moved, and thetwo brothers clasped hands eagerly and lovingly. Then Walter continued:"So Harry took the old mare, and I took my pony, and we set off soonafter breakfast, and got in a little time to Marley Heath; and I can'tsay I felt very warm to the place, and certainly it didn't _look_ verywarm to me. `What's to come next?' I said to Harry. `Well, ' he said, `we must make inquiries. ' That was all easy enough to say, but who werewe to make inquiries of? The only living thing about was an old donkeywho had strayed on to the heath, and was trying to get a mouthful ofsomething off a bare patch or two; and as we came up he stared at us asthough he thought that we were bigger donkeys than he was for coming tosuch a place at such a time. It wasn't much use looking about, forthere was nothing to guide us. We tried to track your pony's footmarks, but as there had been more snow in the night, and it had now set in tothaw, we could see nothing anywhere in the way of footmarks to trust to. Certainly it was a regular puzzle, for we hadn't the slightest ideawhich way to turn. `Well, Harry?' I said. `Well, Master Walter?' hesaid in reply; but that didn't help us forward many steps. `Let us rideon till we get to some house where we may make inquiries, ' I said. Sowe set off, and after a bit came to a farm-house, and asked if any onehad seen two people on horseback about, that day or the day before, describing Amos as one. No; they had seen no such riders as wedescribed, therefore we had to trot back to the heath again. `Well, Harry?' I said again. `Well, Master Walter?' he replied; and we staredat one another like two--well, I hardly know what to say, but certainlynot like two very wise men. So we rode about, first in this direction, and then in that, till we began to be fairly tired. 

"It was now getting on for luncheon time, so we made for a farm-house, got some bread and cheese and milk, and a feed for our horses, and thenset out again; and weary work we had. At last I was almost giving up indespair, and beginning to think that we had better go home and try someother plan, when, as we were passing near a copse, we saw a tall figureslouching along through the melting snow. The man did not see us atfirst, but when he looked round and made out who we were, he began toquicken his pace, and strode along wonderfully. There was no mistakinghim; it was Jim Jarrocks, the fellow who won my sovereign in thatfoolish match on Marley Heath. Jim evidently had rather we had not met, for he had a couple of hares slung over his shoulder, which he could notwell hide. However, there was no help for it, so he put a bold face onthe matter, and touched his hat as I overtook him, and said, `Yourservant, Mr Walter; I hope you're well. ' Of course I did not thinkanything about the hares then, I was too full of Amos; so I asked him ifhe had seen Amos alone, or with another horseman. `No, sir, ' hereplied, `I've not; but I'll tell you what I've seen. Last night Ifound Mr Amos's pony, Prince, about a mile from here; he was saddledand bridled, and had broke loose somehow or other, it seemed. So, as induty bound, I got on him, and rode him over to the Manor-house, andfastened him up in the stable-yard; for it was late, and I didn't liketo rouse anybody. '--`All right, Jim, ' I said; `Dick found him when hewent to the stables this morning. But whereabouts was it that you foundhim?'--`Well, it's a queer and awkward road to get to it, ' he said; `butI can show you the way. '--`And is there any house near where you foundPrince?' I asked. --`House! no; nothing of the kind, ' said he, `exceptthe brickmaker's cottage, about a mile further on. '--`And no one livesin that cottage, I suppose?'--`No; and hasn't done for months past;'--then he stopped all of a sudden, and said, `By-the-by, there was smokecoming out of the chimney of that cottage as I passed it last night;that was strange anyhow. '--`Well, then, Jim, ' I said, `there may be someone in it now, and we can find out if they've seen anything of mybrother. Just put us in the way to the cottage; there's a goodman. '--`By all means, ' he said, and strode on before us for about amile, and then pointed up a winding lane. `There, ' he cried; `keepalong that lane till you come to an open field, and you'll soon see thecottage; you can't miss it, for there isn't another anywhere about. Good afternoon, sir. ' And away he went, evidently glad to get off withhis hares as speedily as possible. The rest does not take much telling. We soon came to the cottage, and discovered dear Amos, and encounteredthat miserable man who has treated him so cruelly. Ah! well, it's beena good ending to a bad beginning. "

"Thank you, my dear brother, " said Amos warmly; "it was well and kindlydone. Yes, God has been very good in delivering me out of my trouble, and specially in making you, dear Walter, the chief instrument in mydeliverance. "

"I only wonder, " said his brother, "that the wretched man did not makeoff with the pony. "

"No, " said Amos; "that might have got him into trouble with the police, if they had found the pony in his possession, or had he sold it toanybody. No doubt, when he found the first night that I would not givehim the cheque, he just turned the pony adrift, so that, whether he madehis way home or any one found him, there would be no clue to the personwho had entrapped me. "

"I see it all!" cried Walter. "But now we must finish up with a word onmoral courage, with an illustration by dear auntie. --Yes, Aunt Kate, yousee our hero Amos; you see how he has been ready to make a regularmartyr of himself, and surely that is real moral courage. "

"Indeed it is so, dear Walter, " said Miss Huntingdon; "and you wereright in calling your brother's courage a species of martyrdom, for thespirit of a true martyr has been well described as `a readiness tosuffer the greatest evil rather than knowingly to do the least. '"

"Capital, auntie! And now, if father is willing, give us an example. "

Mr Huntingdon having gladly given his consent, his sister spoke asfollows:--

"My moral hero this time is a real martyr, and a young one. In thespring of the year 1555, a youth, named William Hunter, entered thechurch of Brentwood, in Essex, to read in the great Bible which stoodthere chained to a desk for the use of the people. He was an apprenticeto a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native town. He lovedthe Bible, and it was his joy to read it. As he stood before the desk, a man named Atwell, an officer of the Romish bishop, came that way, and, seeing how he was engaged, remonstrated with him, and then said, whenthe young man quietly justified himself, `I see you are one who dislikethe queen's laws, but if you do not turn you will broil for youropinions. '--`God give me grace, ' replied William, `to believe his wordand confess his name, whatever may come of it. '

"Atwell reported him; he was seized, and placed in the stocks. Then hewas taken before Bishop Bonner, who, finding him resolute, ordered himagain to the stocks; and there he lay two long days and nights, withoutany food except a crust of brown bread and a little water. Then, inhopes of subduing his spirit, Bonner sent him to one of the Londonprisons, with strict orders to the jailer to put as many iron chainsupon him as he could possibly bear; and here he remained for three-quarters of a year. At last the bishop sent for him and said, `If yourecant, I will give you forty pounds and set you up in business. ' Thatwas a large sum in those days. But William rejected the offer. `I willmake you steward of my own house, ' added Bonner. `But, my lord, 'replied the young man, `if you cannot persuade my conscience byScripture, I cannot find in my heart to turn from God for the love ofthe world. ' `Then away with him to the fire!'

"He was to suffer near his native town. There was no prison in theplace, so William Hunter was confined in an inn, and guarded byconstables. His mother rushed to see him, and his words to her were, `For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ hath procured for me acrown of joy; are you not glad of that, mother?' On the morning when hewas to die, as he was being led from the inn, his father sprang forwardin an agony of grief, and threw his arms round him, saying, `God be withthee, son William. ' His son looked calmly at him and said, `God be withyou, father. Be of good comfort; I trust we shall soon meet again wherewe shall rejoice together. ' When he had been secured to the stake, apardon was offered him if he would recant. `No, ' he said, `I will notrecant, God willing. ' When the fire was lighted, and the flames beganto rise, he threw a book of Psalms, which he still held in his hands, into the hands of his brother, who had followed him to the place ofdeath. Then his brother called to him and said, `William, think on thesufferings of Christ, and be not afraid. '--`I am not afraid, ' cried theyoung martyr. `Lord, Lord, receive my spirit. ' These were his lastwords. The dry fagots burned briskly, and in a few minutes hissufferings were at an end for ever. 

"Here, surely, dear Walter, was moral courage of the highest order. William Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving parents. All the neighbours loved him for his gentle piety. A few words spokenwould have saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering, and acruel death; but he would not by a single act or a single word savehimself, when by so doing he would be acting against his conscience, much as he loved his home, his parents, and his people. "

Walter clapped his hands with delight when his aunt had finished, andexclaimed, "Nothing could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amosto a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than get his libertyby doing or promising to do what he believed to be wrong. Thank you, dear aunt; I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never forget. "

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

WALTER TO THE RESCUE. 

The day after his return home Amos sought his father in the library. Mr Huntingdon's manner to him had become so much more warm andaffectionate, that he now ventured on a course which a few days beforehe could not have brought himself to adopt. 

"Father, " he said, "can you spare me a few minutes? I have something onmy mind which I feel that I ought to consult you about. "

"Sit down, sit down, my dear boy; what is it?" said his father. 

Thus encouraged, Amos unburdened his mind. "Father, " he proceeded, "Imust ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two, or perhaps evenmore. You are aware now that I have taken upon myself, for the presentat any rate, the charge of my poor sister Julia's little children. AndI may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal the state of thingsfrom you, that her miserable husband has left her utterly destitute, sothat I am doing what I can to keep her from want. The man has desertedher more than once; and more than once, when he returned and found moneyin her possession, he forced it from her. So I have placed what I canspare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy and Christianwoman with whom she lodges, and through this good landlady of hers I seethat she does not want such necessaries and comforts as are essential toher health. "

He was proceeding with his explanation, but was checked by the deepemotion of Mr Huntingdon, who, resting his head between his hands, could not restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing up from hisseat, he clasped Amos to him, and said, in a voice almost choked by hisfeelings, "My dear, noble boy! and I have misunderstood, andundervalued, and treated you with harshness and coldness all this time!Can you forgive your unworthy father?"

Poor Amos! Such a speech from his father almost stunned him for themoment. At last, recovering himself, he cried, "O father, dear father, don't say such a thing! There is not--there cannot be anything for meto forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown me the last few dayshas made up a thousand times for any little trouble in days gone by. "

"You are a dear good boy to say so, " replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing himwarmly. "Well, now tell me all. "

"You see, dear father, " continued Amos when they were again both seated, "I am afraid, from poor Julia's letter, that she is in some specialtrouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very muchas if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part isclearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see, she writes, --`Amos, I'm mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive memad. He will take them both away; he will ruin us all, body and soul. 'So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what itmeans. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened totake the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour tomyself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is worth nothing. "

"Yes; I see it all, " said the squire with a sigh; "but what can be done?I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as theirfather, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife. "

"True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannotbear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender merciesof such a man. "

"Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?" asked MrHuntingdon. 

"There, again, I am in a difficulty, " said Amos. "When I first got toknow how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she mademe promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, andspecially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would bedone against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if ourfamily knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my bestto remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she isliving; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I amstill under the promise of secrecy. "

"Well, " said his father, with a sigh, "I will not of course ask you tobreak your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing, I hope. "

"I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things arereally going on with her and with the poor children. "

"But will it be safe for you to go?" asked his father anxiously. "Willnot that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?"

"I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man willnot remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened theselast two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of meas possible. "

"Perhaps so; but I must say I don't like the thoughts of your goingalone on such an expedition, after what has already happened. "

"Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty callsme; and so I may expect that God will take care of me. "

"Well, go then, my boy; and, see, take these two ten-pound notes to yourpoor sister. It is not fair that all the burden should fall upon you. These notes will at any rate keep her from want for a time; she can putthem into safe keeping with her landlady. And tell her"--here his voicefaltered--"that they are sent her with her father's love, and that thereis a place for her here in her old home still. "

"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear father, " cried Amos; "you _have_ made meglad!"

"Yes, " continued the squire, "tell her that from me; yet, of course, that does not include _him_. "

"Oh no! I thoroughly understand that, " replied his son; "and I see, ofcourse, many difficulties that lie in the way; but still, I believe thatbrighter and happier days are coming for us all. "

"May it be so, my dear boy, " said the other, again drawing him closelyto him. "It will not be _your_ fault, at any rate, if they do notcome. "

So that morning Amos left on his work of love. 

He had not been gone many minutes, when Walter knocked at his aunt'sdoor. "Aunt Kate, " he began, when he had seated himself at her feet, "Iwant your advice about a little scheme of mine. It's a good scheme, andperhaps a little bit of moral courage on my part will come out of it. "

"Well, my dear boy, let me hear it. "

"Father, I know, has been talking to you about Amos, " he went on; "allabout his noble and self-denying conduct towards my poor dear sister, and that he is going, in consequence of that horrid letter, to see herand those children of hers. I gather this partly from a few words I hadwith Amos before he started. But then, nobody knows where Julia lives, and nobody knows what that scamp of a fellow may be up to against mydear good brother. "

"Yes, Walter, " said his aunt, "I understand all that; and I must saythat I feel a little anxious about your brother, though I know that heis in better hands than ours. "

"Well, auntie, shall I tell you what I have thought of?"

"Do, dear boy. "

"If father will let me, I should like to go and keep guard over Amostill he comes back. "

"But how can you do that?" asked Miss Huntingdon. "You said just nowthat no one knows where your poor sister lives except Amos himself; andit would hardly do for you to overtake him, if that could be done, andjoin yourself to him whether he would or no. "

"No, Aunt Kate, that is not my idea. Now, though nobody but Amos knowswhere Julia lives, I think I know. "

"What do you mean?" asked the other, laughing. 

"Why, just this. I don't know properly. I'm not supposed to know, andso I take it for granted that I don't know; and yet really I believe Ido know. "

"My boy, you speak in riddles. "

"Ah yes, Aunt Kate, I do; and I see you will never guess the answers tothem, so you must give up, and I will tell you. You know that for sometime now it has been Amos's place to unlock the post-bag of a morningand give out the letters. The other day, however, he made a mistake, and threw me two which were really directed to him. I gave them back tohim, and I saw him turn red when he saw the mistake he had made. Icouldn't help noticing the post-mark at the time, and I thought I knewthe handwriting on one of the envelopes. The post-mark was the same oneach. I am sure now that one was directed by my sister; I know herhandwriting well, for I have two little hymns in my desk which she wroteout for me before--before she left us, and I often look at them. Andso, putting two and two together, I believe the other was most likelydirected by the person in whose house she is living. "

"And what was the post-mark?"

"Ah, auntie, I don't think I ought to tell, not even you. It seems likea breach of confidence towards Amos, though it really is not. At anyrate, I am not sure that he would like me to tell. "

"Quite right, my dear Walter; I had no idle curiosity in asking; and ifAmos wishes it still to be a secret, of course you ought not to discloseit. "

"Thank you, auntie, for looking at it in that light. Now it can be nobreach of confidence on my part to go over to that place from which theletters came, as shown by the post-mark, and just keep my eyes and earsopen, and see if I can get within sight or hearing of Amos withoutmaking myself known. I would not intrude myself into my poor sister'shouse if I can find it out, but I would just keep a bit of a watch nearit, and look if I can see anything of that miserable man who has givenus so much trouble; and then I might be able to give him a little of mymind, so as to induce him to take himself clean off out of the country. At any rate, I would watch over Amos, that no harm should come to him. What do you think?"

"Well, dear boy, " replied his aunt, "it is very generous of you to makesuch a proposal, and good might come out of your plan; but what willyour father say to it?"

"Ah, that's the point, auntie. I must get you to persuade him to let mego. Tell him how it is--tell him I'll be as prudent as a policeman, ora stationmaster, or any one else that's particularly prudent, or oughtto be; and, if I don't find Amos where I imagine he will be, I'll beback again before bed-time to-morrow. "

Miss Huntingdon spoke to her brother, and put Walter's scheme beforehim; but at first he would not hear of it. "The boy must be crazy, " hesaid; "why, he's not fit to be out all by himself on such an errand asthis. That scoundrel of a man might be getting hold of him, and no oneknows what might happen then. It's absurd, --it's really quite out ofthe question. "

"Don't you think, Walter, " replied his sister calmly, "that God, who hasput such a loving thought into the heart of Walter, will keep him fromharm? Would it be right to check him when he is bent on such a work?Besides, as to the wretched and unhappy man who has caused all thistrouble, are not such characters, with all their bluster, commonlyarrant cowards when they find themselves firmly confronted?"

"Perhaps so, Kate. Well, send Walter to me. "

"My boy, " exclaimed the squire, when Walter made his appearance, "whatwild scheme is this? Why, surely you can't be serious?"

"Indeed I am, father. You needn't be afraid for me. It was not my ownthought, --I'm sure it was put into my mind; besides, it will be capitalfun just having to look after myself for a night or two, and a littleroughing it will do me good. "

"And where do you intend to sleep and to put up, I should like to know?"asked Mr Huntingdon, half seriously and half amused. 

"Oh, I'll find a shakedown somewhere; and I'm sure to be able to getlots of eggs and bacon and coffee, and I could live on them for a week. "

"And I suppose I am to be paymaster, " said his father, laughing. 

"Oh no, father, not unless you like. I've a sovereign still left; I'llmake that pay all, and I must do without things till I get my nextquarter's allowance. "

"Very well, my boy; but hadn't you better take Harry or Dick with you?"

"O father! take old Harry! why, I might as well take the town-crier. Ohno, let me go alone. I know what Amos would say if it were he that wasin my place; he would say that we may trust to be taken care of while weare in the path of duty. --May I go, then, father?"

"Well--yes, " said Mr Huntingdon, but rather reluctantly; and then hesaid, "But how shall I be sure that you haven't got into any trouble?for I understand from your aunt that you make it a point of honour notto let us know where you are going to. "

"All right, father: if I don't turn up some time to-morrow afternoon, I'll manage to send a letter by some means or other. "

After luncheon Walter set out on his self-imposed expedition, on his ownpony, with a wallet strapped behind him which Miss Huntingdon had takencare should be furnished with such things as were needful. His fatheralso thrust some money into his hand as they parted. And now we mustleave him as he trots briskly away, rather proud of his solitaryjourney, and follow his brother, who little suspected that a guard andprotector was pursuing him in the person of his volatile brother Walter. 

The little town to which Amos leisurely made his way was about twentymiles from Flixworth Manor. It was one of those exceedingly quietplaces which, boasting no attractions in the way of either architectureor situation, and being on the road to or from no places of note or busytraffic, are visited rarely by any but those who have their permanentabode in the neighbourhood. Neither did coach pass through it norrailway near it, so that its winding street or two, with theirstraggling masses of dingy houses, would be suggestive to any accidentalvisitor of little else than unmitigated dulness. It had, of course, itspost office, which was kept at a miscellaneous shop, and did not tax theenergies of the shopkeeper to any great degree by the number of letterswhich passed through his hands. The stamp, however, of this office wasthat which Walter had noticed on the letters which had furnished himwith a clew. 

The heart of Amos was very sad as he rode along, and yet it was filledwith thankfulness also. Yes, he could now rejoice, because he saw thedawning of a better day now spreading into broad flushes of morninglight. His father's kindness to him, so unexpected and so precious, and, almost better still, his father's altered feeling to his sisterJulia--how thoughts of these things gladdened him, spite of his sadness!Oh, if only he could rid the family of that miserable husband of hissister's in some lawful way! Of course it might be possible to put thepolice on his track; but then, if he were caught and brought to justice, what a lamentable and open disgrace it would be to them all, and mightperhaps be the means of partially closing the opening door for hissister to her father's heart. 

With such thoughts of mingled cloud and sunshine chasing one anotherthrough his mind, he reached, about two o'clock in the afternoon, thelittle town of Dufferly, and drew rein at the dusky entrance to theQueen's Hotel, as it was somewhat ambitiously called. Having secured abed, he walked out into the pebbly street, and strolled into the market-place. He might have proceeded at once to his sister's lodgings, but hehad no wish to encounter her husband there if he could avoid it; but howto ascertain whether he was in the town or no he could not tell. Thathe was not likely to remain many days at once in the place he was prettysure; and yet his sister's letter implied that he had been lately withher, and had been taking some steps towards removing the children fromtheir present place of abode. So he walked up and down the little townin all directions, thinking that if Mr Vivian should be anywhere about, and should catch sight of him, he might retire from the place for aseason, and give him an opportunity of visiting his sister unmolested. At length, after returning to his inn and refreshing himself, he made uphis mind to call at his sister's home, trusting that he should find heralone. 

All was quiet as could be in the little street or lane down which he nowmade his way. Knocking at the door of the neat but humble dwellingwhere his sister lived, she herself answered the summons. "Oh! is ityou, Amos?" she cried, clasping her hands passionately together. "Oh, Iam so glad, so glad! I want to tell you all, it has been so terrible;come in, come in. " Amos entered the little parlour and looked round. He had himself furnished it with a few extras of comfort and refinement. "O Amos, dear, dear Amos, " cried his sister, throwing her arms roundhis neck and weeping bitterly, "it has been so dreadful. Oh pardon me, pray pardon me!"

"What for, dearest Julia?" he asked. 

"Why, for writing that last part of the letter. He stood over me; hemade me do it. He stood over me with a whip; yes, he struck me over andover again--look at my neck here--he struck me till the blood came, whenI refused at first to write as he dictated. But oh! I hope no harmcame of that letter?"

"None, dear sister, none. No; the Lord took care of me and deliveredme. --But the children--what of them?"

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure; but I rather think he doesn't mean to movethem after all. "

"And where is he himself--I mean your--"

"My husband, as he calls himself, " she said bitterly. "Oh, he isanywhere and everywhere; sometimes here for a day or two, and thenabsent for weeks. Indeed, he hardly dares stay for any length of timein any one place, for fear of the police getting hold of him. "

"My poor sister!" exclaimed Amos with a sigh; "but, at any rate, _all_is not dark, " he added. "I am bringing a little gladness with me. Mydear father sends you his love--"

"What--what, Amos!" she exclaimed, interrupting him with almost ashriek. "Oh, say it again! Oh, can it really be?--my father send mehis love! Oh, dearest Amos, was it really so?"

"Yes; he knows nearly all now, and his heart has opened to you, and hebids me tell you there is a place for you in the old home still. "

Sinking on the ground, the bewildered, agitated creature clasped herhands across her forehead, as though the swollen veins would burst withthe intensity of her emotion. At last, yielding to her brother's tendercaresses, she grew calmer, and allowing him to draw her close to him, she wept a full flood of tears, which brought with them a measure ofpeace in their flow. "Oh! can it be?" she cried again, but now morehopefully--"a place for me yet in the dear old home, and my father'ssmile on me once more. " Then she added in a scared, hoarse whisper, "But that doesn't include _him_?"

"No, not your unhappy husband; my father could not receive him. "

"Of course not, Amos. Oh that I had never married him! Every spark oflove for him has died out of my heart now. I hate him, and I loathemyself. "

"Nay, nay, dear sister, " said Amos soothingly, "don't say so. He hassinned, greatly sinned, but all may yet be well. "

"Never, never, " she cried, "while he claims me for his wife!"

"Well, well, " said Amos, "calm yourself, dear Julia. See, here is proofvisible of my father's love to you: he has bid me put these two ten-pound notes into Mrs Allison's hands for you. He sends them toyourself, but I am to place them with her, lest they should be takenfrom you. "

"Let me look at them with my own eyes, " she cried; and when Amosproduced them, she pressed them eagerly to her lips, exclaiming, "Dear, dear father, God bless you for this!"

"And now, " said her brother, when she had sufficiently recovered herselfto listen to him quietly, "we must consider next what is best to bedone. Do you think your husband is likely to be here again soon? and ifso, will it be of any use your speaking to him on the subject of yourfather having expressed his willingness to receive you without him?Would he be willing to leave you to us now, and to go abroad himself tosome distant land? and do you yourself really desire this separation?"

"Desire it, Amos! how can I help desiring it? Though marrying him lostme home and almost everything I once loved, yet I could have followedhim all the world over if he had really loved me. But he hates me; hetakes a spiteful pleasure in ill-treating me. He would never come nearme at all, if he did not think that he could manage to squeeze somemoney out of me. How _can_ I have any love left for such a wretch?"

"But will he be willing to leave you in our hands? Remember you arestill his wife, and he has therefore a claim upon you. "

"I know it, Amos, too well. Oh! what can I do?"

"Well, I can hardly tell; but I am remaining in the town to-night, andas it is now getting late, I will go to my room at the inn, and willcome and see you again to-morrow morning, by which time I shall have gotmore light on the subject, I have no doubt. " So they parted. 

As Amos walked into the inn-yard to have a last look at his pony, he sawa young man advancing towards him; but as it was now getting dark, hecould not at first make out his features. A moment more, and herecognised his brother. 

"What, Walter!" he exclaimed in astonishment; "how did _you_ come here?"

"Oh, very comfortably indeed!" was the reply. "I have ridden over on alittle private business of my own--in fact, I may tell you in confidencethat I am at present a member of the mounted police force, and am onduty to-night in the noble town of Dufferly, keeping my eye on a certainperson who is running his head into danger, and wants carefully lookingafter, lest he get himself into mischief. " Amos looked puzzled. "Inother words, " continued his brother, "I could not bear the thought ofyour getting again into the clutches of that horrid man; so I have comeover, not to be a spy upon you, or any fetter on your movements, butjust to be at hand, to give you a help if you want it. "

"How generous of you, dear Walter!" cried his brother, shaking himwarmly by the hand; "but does my father know?"

"Of course he does, and my aunt too. It's all right. You are captain, and I'm only lieutenant; and now, what's the next move?"

"Well, to have some tea together in my room, Walter. But really yourcoming was quite unnecessary. I shall be taken care of without yourneeding to put yourself to all this trouble. However, as you _are_here, I begin to see that good may come of it. So let us have tea, andthen you must tell me how you found me out, after which I will tell youwhat is in my mind. " So the brothers had a cozy meal together, and thenAmos told Walter about his interview with their sister, and having takenhim fully into his confidence, discussed with him what was best to bedone under the sad circumstances. 

"If I could only get hold of that rascally scamp!" said Walter, with aninclination of his head which implied that nothing would give him moreintense satisfaction. 

"I am afraid, " said his brother, "that would not help us much: the thingthat would do us all good is not to get hold of him, but to get rid ofhim. Unfortunately, however, he knows the hold he has upon us throughpoor Julia, and I fear that he will leave no stone unturned toaccomplish his own objects through her directly or indirectly. "

"And can't we set the police on him?"

"I daresay we could, Walter; but what a disgrace it would be to have himexposed and brought to justice!"

"Ah, I see that. Well, Amos, we must see if we cannot frighten him awayfor good and all. "

His brother shook his head. "He knows very well, you may be sure, " hesaid, "that for Julia's sake and our own we shall not drag him out intothe light, with all his sins and misdemeanours, for the public to gazeat, if we can help it; and yet I think he may perhaps be induced toretire of his own accord and settle abroad, if he finds that we are bothof us determined to keep him in view. Suppose, then, we go together topoor Julia's to-morrow. Oh, how delighted she will be to see you onceagain! And we can get her to make her husband understand that we areboth of us keeping our eyes open about him, and that unless he takeshimself off at once, and gives up his poor abused wife into our keeping, and leaves her there, we shall bring him to justice, let the disgrace bewhat it may. "

"Well, Amos, " replied Walter, "I can see no better plan; so if agreeableto you I will have the happiness of going with you to-morrow to my dearsister's. "

The next morning, accordingly, the two brothers stood at the door ofJulia Vivian's humble dwelling. The landlady answered the bell, andsaid that her lodger was still in her bedroom, having passed a verydisturbed night, but that, if they would come in, she would soon comedown to them. In a few minutes the parlour door slowly opened, andJulia, deadly pale, a wild light in her eyes, and her hands tremblingwith excitement, made her appearance. She advanced with hesitatingsteps towards Amos, behind whom stood Walter, partly hidden by hisbrother; but as his sister caught sight of her younger brother, thecolour rushed into her face, and with a wild cry she sprang into hisarms. "Walter! O Walter, Walter! is it really you? Oh, this is toomuch happiness. --Amos, you never told me of this. "

"No, my dear sister, because I did not know of it myself. But calmyourself now. You look so very ill, I am afraid the excitement has beentoo much for you. "

"No, no!" she cried, with a look of terror in her eyes, "it is notthat, --seeing you both is nothing but joy; it would make me well andready for anything. But--but _he_ has been here since I saw youyesterday, Amos. He found out from my manner that something hadhappened, and he made me tell that you had been here. And then he askedif you had said anything about money; and, when I hesitated, hethreatened and threatened till he forced it out of me that my dearfather had sent me those notes. He went off again last night, and saidthat he should like to meet you this morning, and that perhaps somethingmight be arranged to the satisfaction of all parties. "

"Then you told him that I was coming again this morning?"

"Yes; he dragged it from me by his sharp and cruel questioning. But heis not coming till twelve o'clock. "

"And where is he now?"

"I cannot tell. He never lets me know where he is going to, or how longhe means to stay away. "

"I will meet him here, then, " said Amos; "perhaps we may now really cometo some understanding which will get us out of our difficulties. "

"And what about me?" asked Walter. "I have come over here in thecharacter of a policeman in plain clothes to watch over my brother Amos, and I don't want that precious blackguard--I beg your pardon, Julia, Imean your husband--to have any more _tete-a-tetes_ with my charge unlessI am by. Can you hide me away in some corner where I can hear and seeall that is going on without being seen myself?"

"Would that be right?" asked his brother hesitatingly. 

"Perfectly right, " said Walter, "so long as _you_ are willing that Ishould hear what passes between you. I'm not fond of acting the spy, but this is simply taking reasonable precautions to prevent an honestman being entrapped or injured by a rogue. "

"Yes, " said his sister, "I am afraid what you say is too true. I wouldnot answer for what Orlando might do at any time. So I think I canplace you where you can observe and hear what is going on without beingobserved yourself. "

Having said this, she led the way into another room on the opposite sideof the passage, which was usually occupied by the owner of the house, but which she had this morning lent to her lodger for her use, as it wasrather larger than the one Mrs Vivian occupied, and more convenient forthe reception of a visitor. On the farther side of this apartment was adoor leading out to the back part of the house. It was seldom used now, and a curtain hung before it, as the weather was cold and a strongcurrent of air came through it. In an upper panel of this door was asmall glass window, now disused, for some alterations had been made inthe back premises which blocked out the light. The panes of this windowhad been pasted over and covered by paper similar in colour to the door, so that the existence of any glass there would not have been suspectedby any ordinary observer. 

When this door and its window had been shown to Walter, what he shoulddo flashed upon him at once. "May we take the landlady in a measureinto our confidence?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said his sister, "I am sure you may. She knows my trials andtroubles too well. "

Amos having assented, Mrs Allison was called, and it was explained toher that Walter wished to watch behind the door unobserved, and to beable, if possible, to see as well as hear what was going on in the roomduring the interview between his brother and brother-in-law. The goodwoman, at once comprehending the situation, gave cheerful leave toWalter to take his stand where he proposed, promising that no one shouldinterrupt; and then with her own hands scratched with an old pair ofscissors two small round holes in the paper which had been pasted on thesmall window, such as would not attract the notice of any one in theroom, but through which Walter would be able to see everything that wasgoing on inside. 

A few minutes before twelve he duly took his stand behind this disuseddoor. The curtain had previously been removed by the landlady, so thatany conversation in the room could be readily heard through the not overtight-fitting woodwork. Anxiously did the young man wait for the cominginterview. He was not kept long in suspense. A loud ring at the frontdoor was followed by the sound of a heavy stalking tread. Mr OrlandoVivian entered the other parlour, whither Amos and his sister hadretired, and saluted the former with an offhand, swaggering assumptionof politeness. 

"Your servant, Mr Huntingdon, " he said. Whose ever _servant_ he mightbe, at that moment he was clearly the _slave_ of strong drink. 

Amos bowed. 

"I hope you find your sister well, Mr Huntingdon, " he added; "it isvery kind of you to visit us in our humble dwelling. "

The other replied that he did not find his sister looking as well as hehad hoped, but trusted that she might soon be better. 

"The better for my absence, I suppose you mean, " said his brother-in-lawsneeringly. 

Amos made no reply. 

"Well, sir, " continued the wretched stroller, whose swaggering mannerwas evidently merely assumed, "every man's house is his castle, andtherefore mine must be so too. I haven't much to offer you in the wayof welcome just now, but, before we part, I should like a word inprivate with you. --Is the other room occupied?" he asked of his wife. 

"No; Mrs Allison has put it at my service this morning. "

"Then, Mr Huntingdon, will you be so good as to follow me?" Sayingwhich, he led the way to the other parlour, and, when they had entered, locked the door, to the surprise and not particular satisfaction ofAmos, who gave just one glance at the little window, and thought he sawtwo eyes peeping through the little holes. 

"Pray be seated, " said the player. 

Amos accepted the invitation and sat. 

"You have brought some money, I understand, from my father-in-law forhis daughter, " began Mr Vivian abruptly. 

"I have, " said the other, after his questioner had waited a minute or sofor a reply. 

"Would you have the goodness to hand it to me?" continued the player. 

"I brought it, " replied Amos, "for my sister's own private use andbenefit, and cannot therefore give it to you. "

"Ah, indeed!" said the other sarcastically; "but you know, sir, that awife's goods belong to her husband, who, as I think the Bible has it, isthe head of the wife, so that what is hers is his, and indeed his morethan hers. "

"Perhaps so, under ordinary circumstances, " replied Amos; "but this is afree gift from a father to a daughter, and I am sure no kind orreasonable husband would wish to deprive her of it. "

"Deprive, sir? No, --deprive is not the word. Husband and wife are one, you know: the wife is the weaker vessel, and the husband the stronger;and it is only right and natural that the stronger should have themoney, that he may use it for the benefit of the weaker. "

"Mr Vivian, " said Amos firmly, "all this, and you must know it, is mereidle talk. I cannot give you the money. "

"And I on my part say, sir, " replied the other, "that I must have it. Iwant it. I cannot do without it. "

"I have told you my decision, " said Amos. 

"Indeed, " said the other. "Then I am driven to an unpleasant line ofpersuasion, though very reluctantly. "

He rose, and Amos did the same. 

"Do you see this?" he said, taking from his pocket a revolver. 

"I do, " said Amos. 

"Should I be disposed to use this by way of compulsion, what would yousay?"

"That I am in God's hands and not in yours, " replied Amos, lookingVivian full in the face, who quailed before the calm, steady gaze of theyoung man. 

Neither spoke for half a minute; then the unhappy stroller stepped back, and began to raise his right arm. The next instant the disused door wasdashed open, and Walter sprang upon his astounded brother-in-law withthe fury of a tiger. The pistol flew from Vivian's hand, and he fell tothe ground. Walter, who was full of vigour and activity, pinned himdown, and called to Amos to give him one of the bell ropes. With this, being assisted by his brother, he pinioned the prostrate man so that hewas utterly helpless. 

"Now, " said Walter, "let us search the villain's pockets. " He did so, and discovered a second revolver. "What's to be done now?" he asked;"shall we hand him over at once to the police?"

At this moment his sister, having heard the scuffle, tried the door. Amos unlocked it. What a sight presented itself! "Oh, what does it allmean?" she cried. 

"Why, just this, " exclaimed her brother. "This dastardly villain--Imust call him so--has been threatening to shoot Amos because he wouldnot give him the money that was sent by my father to you. "

"Oh, misery! misery!" cried the unhappy wife, hiding her face with herhands. 

"Let me get up; untie the rope, " wailed the unhappy Vivian, now utterlycrestfallen and abject. "I meant your brother no harm; I only intendedto frighten him. The pistols are neither of them loaded. "

"It may be so, " said Walter. "Well, get up, " and he helped him to rise. "Now sit down in that chair and listen to me. You've behaved like abrute, and worse than a brute, to my poor sister; you have cruellytrapped my dear noble brother, and would have murdered him if you haddared. The simplest thing would just be to send for a policeman andgive you into his charge. But I don't want to do this for my poorsister's sake and the family's sake. But now I've made up my mind--comewhat may, disgrace or no disgrace, if you show your face amongst any ofus again, the constable shall have you, and you shall get your deserts. We've got a home for our sister at the old place, and Amos has got ahome for the children. Now if, after I've set you free, you turn upanywhere near us or the children, we'll make no more bones of thematter; you shall get your deserts, and these will be the deserts of amean, cowardly, rascally wife-beater, to say the best of you. "

Not a word of reply did the guilty man make to this speech. He writhedin his chair, and looked utterly humbled and crushed. 

When Walter--who had now, with the tacit consent of Amos, taken themanagement of matters into his own hands--had examined the pistols, which proved to be unloaded, he approached his brother-in-law once more, and said, with less excitement, "Now, Mr Orlando Vivian, I am going torelease you, and you will have the goodness to take yourself out of thistown before you are an hour older, else you will have to take theconsequences. " Having said this, he proceeded to unfasten the cordwhich bound the degraded and spirit-broken wretch. When this had beenaccomplished, the baffled stroller rose, and, with head hanging down, and without a word uttered, left the house. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

BACK TO THE OLD HOME AGAIN. 

"I shall remain here with poor Julia, " said Amos to his brother, whentheir unhappy sister, completely overcome by the terrible scene she hadjust witnessed, had retired to her bedroom, where she was lovinglytended by her kind landlady. 

"And what is the next move for me?" asked Walter. 

"Well, " replied Amos, "you have done your part most nobly, and I am sothankful now that you came. Not that I think that wretched man wouldreally have harmed me. He just wanted to frighten the money out of me;but I believe, on finding me firm, and not to be frightened, he wouldhave dropped his pistol, and made some shuffling attempt to turn thematter into a joke, and would then have tried to wheedle the money outof me, when he saw that a show of violence would not do. Still, I amtruly glad that you were here, and that things have turned out as theyhave done. I feel sure now that you have thoroughly humbled thisunprincipled scoundrel, and that he has slunk away like a whipped hound, and I have every hope that he will not trouble poor Julia any more withhis odious presence. As he knows now that there are two of us keepingwatch, and must remember what you have said to him, I fully believe thathe will take himself off to a distance, if not go abroad, and that weneed not be afraid of his annoying us any more either here or atFlixworth Manor. "

"That's pretty much what I think too, " replied his brother; "but what amI to say at home?"

"Just what you like. But as to our dear sister, I want you to expressto my father her delight and gratitude when I gave her his love, andtold her that there was still a place for her in the old home. And thenwould you find out from him or through our aunt how soon she may comeback to us? for I want to get her out of this place. When she is oncein her old home again she will be safe out of the clutches of her cruelhusband. I will wait here for an answer, which you can send me by post;and, should that answer warrant poor Julia's return at once, I will seeall things got ready, and will bring her myself. And, should there beanything in the way of her returning immediately, I can remove her for atime to where her children are, as I shall be better able to keep my eyeupon her there. "

"All right, Amos; I'm not afraid of leaving you here now, for I am asfully persuaded as you are that Mr Vivian has had such a lesson as hewon't forget in a hurry, and that he will make himself pretty scarce forsome time to come. You shall hear from me by to-morrow's post. --Ah, butthere's another thing: am I to say anything about the children? for ifpoor Julia is to come back we shall have to make room for the childrenas well. "

"Nay, dear Walter, " said his brother, "I think it would be better to saynothing about the children; they are safe and happy where they are. Letus leave the matter to our dear father. When Julia has got her oldplace in his house and heart back again, I feel sure that it will not belong before he bids her himself send for the children. Don't you thinkit will be better that it should come from himself?"

"Just so, Amos; you are right, as usual. Well, this is a capital endingto a queer beginning. And what will old Harry say to see `Miss Julia aswas' turning up `Mistress Julia as is'? Oh, won't it be capital fun tosee him welcome her back!" So Walter set off on his homeward journey inhigh spirits, and in due time reached his destination brimful of newsand excitement. 

"All well, I hope?" asked his father, who, with his aunt, met him in thehall on his arrival. 

"Oh yes, father, it's all well, and a deal better than all well--it'sall best. " Then the three gathered round the fire in Mr Huntingdon'slibrary, and Walter told his story. Deep was the emotion of MrHuntingdon and his sister, and deeper still their thankfulness, whenthey heard of the happy conclusion of the terrible and exciting meetingbetween Amos and his brother-in-law. 

"And you did nobly and wisely yourself, my dear boy, " said the squire. "I believe you have given that wretched scoundrel his quietus so far aswe are concerned. --And what of your poor sister? Are we to expect hersoon?"

"That's what I've got to write to Amos about, " replied his son. "Assoon as you are ready to receive her she will be only too thankful tocome. "

"Let her come at once--write by this night's post, " cried his father inan agitated voice. "Poor dear child, I long to welcome her back again;and I think, if I am not mistaken, that your aunt has been making somequiet preparations, so that it will not be inconvenient to you, Kate, for her to come at once, will it?"

"Not in the least, " replied his sister; "I have been earnestly hopingand praying for this. "

"And what about the children?" said her brother; "we must make room forthem too, poor things. We can't keep the mother and her childrenseparate. "

"Of course not, dear Walter, " replied Miss Huntingdon; "we shall bequite prepared to receive them also, though they are at present not withtheir mother, but under Amos's charge. "

"Ah, I remember, " said her brother; "well, we can send for them too, when the poor child herself has got here. "

"Am I to write all that?" asked Walter. 

"Oh, certainly, " was the reply. 

"Then hip, hip, hurrah forty-four thousand times! And now I will writethe letter; and then I'll have a fine bit of fun with Harry. " So theletter was written and duly posted that evening; and Walter, after hehad finished it, betook himself to the butler's pantry. 

"Harry, " he said to the worthy old servant, who, wash-leather in hand, was burnishing the plate with all the solemnity of one engaged in somevery serious and responsible undertaking, "what do you think?"

"Well, Master Walter, I think a good many things. "

"I daresay you do. But what do you think _now_?"

"Why, pretty much what I've been thinking of for the last half-hour; andthat ain't much to the purpose to any one but myself. "

"Just so, Harry; well, I'm not going to offer you a penny for yourthoughts, but I'm sure you would give a good many pence for mine. However, I'll make no charge on the present occasion, but will tell youout at once--Miss Julia that was is coming back to us to her old home, perhaps to-morrow or next day. My father has sent for her. Now, isn'tthat stunning?"

It certainly looked so in Harry's case, for the old man dropped a largesilver fork on to the ground, and stood, with his mouth and eyes wideopen, staring at Walter, the very picture of amazement. 

"All, I thought so, " said Walter. "Well, Harry, it's true. Isn't thatgood news?"

Yes; it was joy and gladness to the faithful old servant's heart. Onebig tear after another rolled down his cheeks, and then he said in a lowvoice, "The Lord be praised! I've prayed as it might come to this someday; and so it has at last. And you're sure of it, Master Walter;you're not a-cramming of me?"

"Nothing of the sort, Harry; I couldn't have the heart to do it. No, itis perfectly true. And now, what shall we do? Shall we pile up a greatbonfire, and light it the same night she comes back? What do you say tothat?"

"I don't know, Master Walter, I don't know. Somehow or other it don'tseem to me quite suitable. I think master would hardly like it. Yousee, it isn't as if she'd been and married a creditable person, or werecoming back after all had gone on straight and smooth like. There'sbeen faults on both sides, maybe; but it seems to me as we'd better doour rejoicing in a quieter sort of way, and light the bonfires in ourhearts, and then we shan't give offence to nobody. "

"Harry, I believe you're right, " said Walter. "You're a regular oldbrick, and nothing but it; thank you for your sensible advice. "

When dinner was over, and Miss Huntingdon had retired for a few minutesto her own room, she received a visit from Walter. "Auntie, " he said, "I am come for a lesson on moral courage, and for a littleencouragement. Now, you know all the circumstances of our grand scenewith that shocking scoundrel at Dufferly; so you must tell me who isyour special hero for moral courage in whose steps Amos trode on thatoccasion. "

"Yes, I can do that, my dear boy, " replied his aunt; "but, first of all, I must speak a word of congratulation and praise to another hero--mydear nephew Walter. "

"Nay, aunt, " he replied, "I don't think there was much moral courageabout it in my case. My blood was up when I saw Amos's life threatened, and I should have pitched into the cowardly wretch if he had been astall as a lighthouse and as big as an elephant. "

"True, dear boy, that was natural courage principally; but there wasmoral courage too in your whole conduct in the matter, in the steadyperseverance with which you went to be your brother's protector, comewhat might and at all hazards. "

"Thank you, dear aunt, but you have given me more praise than I deserve. And now for the special hero, the counterpart of Amos. "

"My hero this time, " said Miss Huntingdon, "is a very remarkable man, amost excellent clergyman, Mr Fletcher of Madeley. He had a veryprofligate nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from theSardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct, had engaged in twoor three duels, and had wasted his means in vice and extravagance. Oneday this nephew waited on his uncle, General de Gons, and, presenting aloaded pistol, threatened to shoot him unless he would immediatelyadvance him five hundred crowns. The general, though a brave man, wellknew what a desperado he had to deal with, and gave a draft for themoney, at the same time expostulating with him freely on his conduct. The young madman rode off triumphantly with his ill-gotten cheque. Inthe evening, passing the door of Mr Fletcher, he determined to call onhim, and began by telling him how liberal General de Gons had been tohim, and, as a proof, exhibited the draft. Mr Fletcher took it fromhis nephew, and looked at it with astonishment. Then, after someremarks, putting it into his pocket, he said, `It strikes me, young man, that you possessed yourself of this note by some indirect method; and inhonesty I cannot return it without my brother's knowledge andapprobation. ' The young man's pistol was immediately at his uncle'sbreast. `My life, ' said Mr Fletcher, with perfect calmness, `is securein the protection of an Almighty Power, nor will he suffer it to be theforfeit of my integrity and your rashness. '--This firmness staggered hisnephew, who exclaimed, `Why, Uncle de Gons, though an old soldier, wasmore afraid of death than you are. '--`Afraid of death!' cried MrFletcher. `Do you think I have been twenty-five years the minister ofthe Lord of life, to be afraid of death now? No, sir; it is for _you_to fear death. Look here, sir, the broad eye of Heaven is fixed uponus; tremble in the presence of your Maker, who can in a moment kill yourbody, and for ever punish your soul in hell. '--The unhappy man turnedpale, and trembled first with fear and then with rage. He stillthreatened his uncle with instant death. Mr Fletcher, however, gave noalarm and made no attempt to escape. He calmly conversed with hismiserable nephew; and at last, when he saw that he was touched, addressed him like a father till he had fairly subdued him. But hewould not return his brother's draft. However, he gave him some helphimself, and having prayed with him, let him go. "

"Ay, dear aunt, " exclaimed Walter, "that was a hero indeed. "

"Yes, Walter, a true moral hero; for, if you remember, moral courage isthe bravery shown, not in acting from sudden impulse, nor from `pluck, 'as you call it, nor from mere animal daring, but in deliberatelyresolving to do and doing as a matter of principle or duty what may costus shame, or loss, or suffering, or even death. Such certainly was MrFletcher's courage. A sense of duty and the fear of God upheld himagainst all fear of man. "

"True, auntie, " acquiesced her nephew; "and so it was with Amos. "

"Yes, just so, Walter. You tell me that when your unhappy brother-in-law pointed the pistol at Amos, your brother said with perfect calmnessthat he was in God's hands, and not in the hands of Mr Vivian. In thusacting from duty, and deliberately hazarding the loss of his own liferather than do what his conscience disapproved of, Amos exhibited, likeMr Fletcher, the most exalted moral courage. "

"Thank you, dear aunt; and I am so glad that I have been permitted tohelp my hero out of his trouble. "

On the third day after this conversation, the post brought the welcomenews from Amos that he should bring his sister that afternoon to her oldhome, and that her children would follow in a day or two. Seven yearshad elapsed since the erring daughter had left sorrow and shame behindher in her home, by suddenly and clandestinely quitting it, to become, without the sanction of father or mother, the wife of a specious butprofligate and needy adventurer. And now, sad and forsaken, she wasreturning to a home which had for a long time been closed against her. Oh, with what a wild throbbing of heart did she gaze at the familiarsights which presented themselves to her on all sides, as she and Amosdrove along the well-known roads, in through the great green gates, upthe drive, and then, with a sudden pull up, to the front door. The nextmoment she had sprung on to the door-steps with an eager cry, and foundherself clasped in her father's arms. 

"My poor, poor child! welcome home again, " he murmured, with chokingtears. 

"O father! father!" she cried, "it is too much happiness. " She couldsay no more. 

Then she received the warm embrace of her aunt, who was saddened to markthe lines of care on that young face, which was all brightness the lasttime she had seen it. And then, as she raised herself up, anddisengaged herself from those loving arms, her eyes fell on the oldbutler, who was twisting a large red pocket-handkerchief into a rope, inhis vain efforts to restrain his emotions, which at last found vent in along cadence of mingled sobs and exclamations. For a moment JuliaVivian hesitated, and then flung her arms round the neck of the old man, who made the hall ring with a shout of thanksgiving. Then, calmingdown, he said, half out loud, and half confidentially to himself, "Youknow it was to be so, and so it is. We've got Miss Julia as was backamong us again; and we don't mean to part with her never again no more. "

Oh, what a day of gladness was that to Amos Huntingdon! One half of thegreat purpose to which he had devoted his life was now accomplished. The banished sister had been welcomed back by his father to her earthlyhome. And yet, how much still remained to be done! But, as he hadworked on in faith and trust before, so he would continue trusting, watching, working, committing all to the wise guiding and overruling ofthat loving Father whose leading hand he had hitherto sought to follow, but never to outrun. 

How bright were the faces which gathered round the dinner-table thatevening!--though even then the cloud rested in a measure on every heart;for that poor worn face, and those wistful pitiful eyes, told of a deepand hidden sorrow, and of an abiding humiliation, which not even thepure love that now beamed on her from all sides could remove from theburdened spirit of the restored wanderer. Down in the kitchen, however, the rejoicing was unclouded, except that Harry mourned over his youngmistress's faded beauty and sad looks, and occupied a considerableportion of his leisure time in punching an imaginary head, held firmunder his left arm, and supposed by his fellow-servants to belong toMiss Julia's brute of a husband. 

Dinner had been over rather more than an hour, when Walter, who had beenabsent for a short time from the drawing-room, returned, beckoned toAmos, and then, gently laying hold of his sister's hand, drew hertowards the door. "Come here, just for one minute, " he said, with amerry smile twinkling in his eyes. "Father will spare you just for aminute;" and he conducted her out of the room. Oh, what a flood of joycame into her heart with that smile of Walter's. Years had passed sinceshe had rejoiced in its light. What would she have given could thefrightful interval between this smile and the last she had seen beforeit have been wiped clean out! To her that interval had been oneprolonged and gloomy frown. But now the three, Amos, Walter, and theirsister, made their way downstairs. Oh, it was so like a bit of childishfun in days gone by! And now they arrived at the butler's pantry, thedoor of which was fast closed. Walter knocked. "Come in, " said the oldman. They entered; and all exclaimed at the sight which presenteditself. On every available projection there was placed a portion of acandle, making in all some thirty or forty lights, which made the littleroom one brilliant blaze. On the wall opposite the door were the words, "Welcome home again, " in large red and blue letters; and on another wallthe words, "Hip, hip, hooray!" in golden characters. 

"O dear Harry!" cried his young mistress, her face glowing with such asmile as no one had seen on it yet since her return, "how good and kindof you--just like your dear old self! how came you to think of it?"

"Well, Miss Julia, " was his reply, "it's this way, --Master Walter and metalked about having a bonfire on the hill; but when we came to think itover, we decided as it wouldn't p'r'aps be altogether the right thing, for reasons as needn't be named on this here occasion. So I've been andgot up a little bit of an illumination all of my own self. But don'tyou go for to suppose as these candles belongs to master. I'm not theman to use his goods this way without leave. It's a pound of the bestcomposite as I bought out of my own wages, and you're heartily welcometo every one on 'em. "

"Thank you, dear Harry, " she said, holding out her hand to him; "it isthe sweetest of welcomes. I feel that it has done me good already;there is true love in every light. "

"Just so, miss, " said the old man, his face brimming over withhappiness. "And now, before we part, we must have a bit of toffee allround, as you was used to in old times. " So saying, he opened an olddrawer, which seemed abundantly furnished with sundry kinds of sweets, and produced the toffee, which he pressed upon each of his threevisitors. "There, " he said in a tone of deep satisfaction, "that's justas it should be; and now, Miss Julia, " he added, "when you want anymore, you know where to come for it. "

Few happier hearts were laid on a bed that night in England than theheart of old Harry the butler. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

TRUE SHAME VERSUS FALSE SHAME. 

While Amos rejoiced greatly in the return of his sister, there was muchstill to be accomplished before his great object could be fairly said tobe attained, even in her case. Nothing could be kinder than MrHuntingdon's treatment of his restored child; and when her little onesjoined her, it seemed as if the pent back affections of the squire werecoming forth in such a rush as would almost overwhelm his grandchildrenwith a flood of indulgence. Brighter days, then, had come;nevertheless, Amos could not help seeing much in the character andconduct of both his sister and Walter which saddened him. Actinghimself on the highest of all principles--the constraining love of theheavenly Master--he could not be content till the same holy motiveshould have its place in the hearts of those he so dearly loved. 

Sorrow had subdued and softened in Julia the less amiable features inher character; while all that Amos had done and suffered and was stilldoing for herself and her children could not but draw out her heart tohim. But yet, while she loved and respected Amos, she just simplydearly loved Walter; towards him the deeper and tenderer feelings of herheart went forth. And Walter himself--though Amos was the object of hiswarmest admiration, and, in a certain sense, of his imitation--was farfrom adopting the standard and motives of his brother. To do simplywhat his conscience told him to be right, when such a course would cutthe prejudices of his gay worldly friends across the grain, was a thinghe was by no means prepared for; and here he had his sister's sympathy. Not that she openly advocated a worldly and compromising line ofconduct--for indeed she was too glad to leave for a while argument andoutspoken opinions to others--but she made him feel in her privateconversations with him that the world and its ways and maxims were stillher own guide and standard. 

Amos could see this more or less, and he deeply deplored it; but hetrusted still that prayer, patience, and perseverance would yet bringhis beloved brother and restored sister to look at duty and wisdom inthe light of God's Word. And Walter gave him at times muchencouragement. He could no longer despise Amos, nor pride himself inhis own superiority to him. The beauty of his elder brother'scharacter, the nobleness of his aims, the singleness of eye that wasmanifest in him, his unselfishness and patience, these traits had wonthe unfeigned admiration of Walter, an admiration which he was toogenerous not to acknowledge. But yet, all the while, he rather frettedunder Amos's rigid consistency, remarking to his sister that really itwas a bit of a bondage to have to be always so very good, and that onemust not be so over-particular if one was to get on with people who werenot yet exactly angels. But still, he was vexed with himself when hehad made such observations, and resolved in his heart to be morecircumspect for the future. 

When Julia Vivian had been some weeks in her old home, Walter exclaimedone morning as they were sitting at breakfast, "What do you think?Gregson is getting up a raffle for his beautiful mare Rosebud. "

"Indeed, " said his father, "how comes that? I thought the young man hadonly had her a short time. "

"Why, father, " replied Walter, "I imagine the fact is that Gregson'spurse is getting worn into a hole or two. "

"I understood, " remarked Miss Huntingdon, "that his father was a verywealthy man, and allowed his son, as you used to put it, no end ofmoney. "

"True, aunt; but I think he has been betting and losing pretty heavilylately, and finds he must pull up a bit. "

"And so he is going to part with his mare by raffle, " said the squire;"pray what does he want for her?"

"Oh, a hundred guineas--and very cheap, too. Will you put in, father?"

"Not I, my boy; I cannot say that I am very fond of these raffles. "

"Well, Amos, " said Walter, turning to his brother, "what does yourworship say?"

Amos shook his head. 

"Nay, don't be ill-natured, " said the other. "It's a guinea a ticket:I'll take one, and you can take one, and if I win I'll pay you back yourguinea, for then I shall get a horse worth a hundred guineas for twoguineas; and if _you_ win, you can either keep the mare or hand her overto me, and I will pay you back your guinea. "

"And suppose we neither of us win?" asked Amos. 

"Oh, then, " replied his brother, "we shall have done a good-naturedthing by giving Gregson a helping hand out of his difficulties, for itwill take a good deal of hunting up to get a hundred names for theraffle. "

"But, my boy, " said the squire, "remember there's some one else to beconsidered in the matter. I can't undertake to keep two horses for you;you have your own pony already. "

"All right, father; there'll be no difficulty there. I can sell my ownpony, and Rosebud won't eat more nor take up more room than poor Punch;and I shall put a few sovereigns into my own pocket too by selling myown pony. "

"That is to say, if you are the winner, my boy; but there will beninety-nine chances to one against that. "

"Oh yes, I know that, father; but `nothing venture, nothing win, ' saysthe proverb. --Well, Amos, what do you say? will you be one?"

"I cannot, " said his brother gravely. 

"Oh, why not?" asked his sister; "it will be so nice for dear Walter tohave that beautiful creature for his own. "

"I do not approve of raffles, and cannot therefore take part in one, "replied Amos. 

"Why, surely, " she exclaimed, "there can be no harm in them. "

"I cannot agree with you there, dear Julia, " he said. "I believeraffles to be utterly wrong in principle, and so there must be harm inthem. They are just simply a mild form of gambling, and nothing got bythem can be got fairly and strictly honestly. "

"Eh! that's strong indeed, " cried Walter. 

"Not too strong, " said his brother. "There are but three ways ofgetting anything from another person's possession honestly: you musteither earn it, as a man gets money from his master by working for it;or you must give a fair equivalent for it, either so much money as it ismarketably worth, or something in exchange which will be worth as muchto the person from whom you are getting the thing as the thing he isparting with is worth to him; or you must have it as a free gift fromits owner. Now a raffle fulfils none of these conditions. Take thecase of this mare Rosebud. Suppose you pay your guinea, and prove thesuccessful person. You have not earned Rosebud, for you have not givena hundred guineas' worth of labour for her. You have not given a fairequivalent, such as an equally good horse or something else of the samevalue, nor an equivalent in money, for you have given only a guinea forwhat is worth a hundred guineas. Nor have you received her as a freegift. "

"I quite agree with you, Amos, " said his father; "you have put it veryclearly. I think these raffles, in which you risk your little in thehope of getting some one else's much, are thoroughly unwholesome anddangerous in principle, and are calculated to encourage a taste for moreserious gambling. "

"But stop there, please, dear father, " said Walter. "When a man giveshis guinea for what is worth one hundred guineas, or when a man bets sayone to ten, if he wins, does not the loser make a free gift to him?There is no compulsion. He stakes his bigger sum willingly, and losesit willingly. "

"Nay, not so, " said Amos. "He is not willing to lose his larger sum; hemakes no out-and-out gift of it. In laying his larger sum against yoursmaller, he does so because he is persuaded or fully expects that heshall get your money and not lose his own. "

"I quite agree with you, " said Mr Huntingdon again. 

Walter looked discomfited, and not best pleased. Then Miss Huntingdonsaid, in her clear gentle voice, "Surely dear Amos is right. If theprinciple of gambling is in the raffle, though in a seemingly moreinnocent form, how can it be otherwise than perilous and wrong to engagein such things? Oh, there is such a terrible fascination in thisventuring one's little in the hope of making it much, not by honest workof hand or brain, nor by giving an equivalent, nor by receiving it asthe free-will loving gift of one who gladly does us a kindness. Whatthis fascination may lead to is to be seen in that terrible paradise ofthe gambler, Monaco, on the shore of the lovely Mediterranean. I havelately heard a most thrilling account of what is to be seen in thatfearfully attractive palace of despair. Lovely gardens are there, ravishing music, an exquisite salon where the entranced players meet tothrow away fortune, peace, and hope. At first you might imagine youwere in a church, so still and serious are the deluded mammon-worshippers. And what follows? I will mention but one case; it is awell-attested one. Two young Russian ladies, wealthy heiresses, enteredthe gaming-hall. For a while they looked on with indifference; thenwith some little interest; then the spell began to work. Thefascination drew them on; they sat down, they played. At first theywon; then they lost. Then they staked larger and larger sums in thevain hope of recovering the gold which was rapidly slipping away fromtheir possession. But they played on. Loss followed loss; they stillwent on playing. Then they staked the last money they had, and lost. Bankrupt and heart-broken, they betook themselves to the cliffs thatoverhang the Mediterranean, and, hand in hand, plunged into the sea andwere lost. Oh, can that be innocent which in any degree tends toencourage this thirst for getting gain not in the paths of honestindustry, but in a way which God cannot and does not bless?"

She paused. Walter hung down his head, while his features workeduneasily. Then he slowly raised his face, and said, "I suppose I'mwrong; but then, what is to be done? Gregson will ask me about it, andwhat am I to say? `Brother Amos disapproves of raffles;' will that do?I can just fancy I can see him and Saunders holding their sides andshaking like a pair of pepper-boxes. No, it won't do; we can't _always_be doing just what's right. If Amos don't go in for the raffle, I thinkI must, unless I wish to be laughed at till they've jeered all thespirit out of me. "

Amos made no answer, nor did Miss Huntingdon; but as Walter lookedtowards her, with no very happy expression of countenance, she quietlylaid one hand across the other. He saw it and coloured, and then, witha disdainful toss of the head, hurried away. But the arrow had hit itsmark. As Miss Huntingdon was about to prepare for bed, she heard a lowvoice outside her door saying, "May a naughty boy come in?" and Walterwas admitted. The tears were in his eyes as he kissed his aunt and satdown. "I am waiting for the rod, " he said, half mournfully and halfplayfully. "I deserve it, I know. I was wrong. I was unkind to Amos. I behaved like a cowardly sneak. Now, dear auntie, for a moral herothat isn't like me. "

"Dear boy, " said his aunt, placing her hands lovingly on his head, "youwere wrong, I know; but you are right now, and I think you mean to keepso. I have a beautiful instance here of moral courage, just to thepoint; I was reading about it a few minutes ago. 

"A young man once called on a most earnest and experienced minister ofthe gospel, Dr Spencer of Brooklyn, New York, about his difficulties inhis earthly calling. He was salesman in a dry-goods store, and wasrequired by his employer to do things which he felt not to be right. For instance, he must learn to judge by the appearance of any woman whoentered the store, by her dress, her manner, her look, the tone of hervoice, whether she had much knowledge of the article she wished topurchase; and if she had not, he must put the price higher, as high ashe thought she could be induced to pay. With one class of customers hemust _always_ begin by asking a half or a third more than the regularprice; and if any objection was made, he was to say, `We have never soldit any cheaper, ' or, `You cannot buy that quality of goods any lower inthe city. ' In fact, a very large portion of the service expected of himwas just to lie for the purpose of cheating. When he expressed hisdoubts about this being right, his employer laughed at him. `Everybodydoes it, ' he said; `You can't be a merchant without it. All is fair intrade. You are too green. '--`I know I am too green, ' the young man saidto the minister sorrowfully; `for I was brought up in the country, anddon't know much of the world. My mother is a poor widow, but I don'tbelieve _she_ would think it right for me to do such things. '--`And do_you_ think it right?' asked the minister. --`No; but my employer is achurch member, and yet I believe it would make my old mother very bad ifshe knew I was doing such things every day. '--`Well, then, ' said thegood pastor, `take your mother's way, and refuse his. '--`I shall lose myplace then. '--`Well, lose your place; don't hesitate a moment; tell youremployer you will do all that you honestly can, but that you were notengaged to deceive, to cheat, to lie. '--`If I should say that, he wouldtell me to be off. '--`Very well; _be_ off, then. '--`I have no otherplace to go to, and he knows it. '--`No matter; go anywhere, doanything--dig potatoes, black boots, sweep the streets for a living, sooner than yield for one hour to such temptation. '--`But if I leavethat place so soon, it will make my old mother feel very bad; she willthink that I am getting unsteady; she will be afraid that I am going toruin. '--`Not a bit of it; tell her just the truth, and you will fill herold heart with joy. She will thank God that she has got such a son, andshe will send up into heaven another prayer for you, which I wouldrather have than all the gold of Ophir. Now, go back to your store, anddo all your duties most faithfully and punctually without lying. Ifyour employer is not a fool, he will like you the better for it, andprize you the more, for he will at once see that he has got one clerk onwhose truthfulness he can depend. But if the man is as silly as he isunconscientious, he will probably dismiss you before long. After that, you may be sure that God will open a way for you somewhere. '--The youngman took Dr Spencer's advice, and lost his place, but soon foundanother, and afterwards became an eminent and prosperous merchant, whilehis old employer became bankrupt in about seven years after he left him, and had to toil on in disgraceful poverty. Dr Spencer adds, `Iattribute this young man's integrity, conversion, and salvation to hisold mother, as he always fondly called her. '

"Now, dear Walter, you were saying, I think, when we were discussing theraffle, that we cannot always be doing just what is right, and thatGregson and Saunders would make great fun of you if you were to refuseto put down your name because Amos thinks it wrong to raffle. Does notthat young American's case show very plainly that we _ought_ to aim atalways doing right? And is it not better to please a dear Christian oldmother, or a dear Christian brother like Amos, than to be smiled upon bya dishonest master, or by such companions as Saunders or Gregson? Yousee, the young man acted with true moral courage when he braved thesneers and displeasure of his unscrupulous employer; and he found hisreward in the approval of God, his conscience, and his dear old mother. "

Walter made no reply, but kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Then herose, flung his arms round his aunt's neck, kissed her half a dozentimes very warmly, and, whispering in her ear, "Pray for me, dearauntie, " hastily left the room. Oh, how Miss Huntingdon rejoiced atthese few simple and touching words, both on Walter's own account andalso on Amos's. She was sure now that her beloved nephew was feelinghis way into the narrow path, and would be all right on the road beforelong. 

A few days later, while Miss Huntingdon, Julia, and Amos were writingtheir letters a little before luncheon time, Walter opened the door andlooked in with a comical expression on his face. "Are you all _very_busy?" he asked. Having received a reply in the negative, he advancedto the fire, crouched down by his aunt, hid his face in her lap, andthen, looking up at her with a smile, said, "I've come to make anannouncement and a confession. First and foremost, the raffle has cometo grief, partly, I suppose, because Walter Huntingdon, junior, Esquireof Flixworth Manor, in the county of Hertfordshire, has refused to putdown his name or have anything to do with it. There--what does thepresent company think of this important announcement?"

Amos and his aunt replied by loving smiles; Julia kept her eyes fixed onsome work she had taken up. 

"My next announcement, " continued Walter, "is of equal interest andimportance. The great firm of Huntingdon, Gregson, and Saunders hasdissolved partnership. What do you say to that?"

Amos left his place at the table, and kneeling down close to his brotherdrew him warmly to him, his tears falling fast all the while as hewhispered, "Dear, dear Walter, how happy you have made me!"

"Do you want to hear all about it?" asked the other. "Would you like tohear my confession?"

"By all means, dear boy, " said his aunt, placing a fond hand on the headof each of the brothers. Julia left her place and crouched down closeto Walter, so that her aunt's hands could include herself in theirgentle pressure. 

"Now for it, " said Walter, rising and standing erect, with his back tothe fire. "Yesterday, " he continued, "as I was riding out beforedinner, I met Saunders and Gregson on horseback. Gregson was ridingRosebud. --`Well, ' said Gregson, `is Rosebud to be yours?'--`Can't affordit, ' I said; `a hundred guineas is too much. I haven't got the money tospare. '--`No, of course not, ' he said; `but you can spare aguinea. '--`Yes, ' I replied; `but that won't buy Rosebud. '--`No, ' hesaid; `but it will give you a chance of getting her for aguinea. '--`That's one way, ' I said; `but it don't seem the right one tome. What do you say to swopping Rosebud for my pony? then you'll havean equivalent, at least if you think so. '--Saunders and he looked at oneanother as if they had seen a ghost; and then I said, `Perhaps I canwork out the value. Let me see. Will you give me fifty guineas a yearif I take the place of groom to you? I may earn Rosebud that way in twoyears if you give her to me instead of wages. '--My two companions beganto whisper to one another, and to stare at me as if I'd just come out ofan Egyptian mummy-case. --`What's up now?' I said. --`We can't make youout, ' said Saunders; `whatever are you driving at?'--`Oh, I'll soon makethat clear!' I said. `The fact is, gentlemen, I've been led to theconclusion that raffling isn't right; that it's only a sort of gambling;that, in fact, there are only three honest ways of my getting Rosebud. One is by giving an equivalent in money or something else; but I can'tafford the hundred guineas, and you won't take my pony in exchange. Thesecond way is by earning her--that is, by my doing so much work as willbe of the same value; but it wouldn't suit you nor me for me to take theplace of your groom for a couple of years. And the third way is for meto have her as a free gift; but I'm not so sanguine as to suppose thatyou mean to give her to me right out. '--`And where have you got all thisprecious nonsense from?' cried Saunders. --`In the first place, ' Ianswered, `you're right about the "precious, " but wrong about the"nonsense;" it's precious truth. In the next place, I have learnedthese views on the subject of raffles from my brother Amos. '--Then there_was_ a hullaballoo. `Your brother Amos!' they shouted out, as if mydear brother was the very last person in the world that anything good orsensible could be expected from. --`Yes, ' I said, as cool as an icicle, `my brother Amos. I suppose if a thing's right, it's as good when itcomes from him as from any one else. '--They were both taken aback, I cantell you. But I stuck to my point. They tried to chaff me out of it bysaying, `Well, I would be a man if I were you, and have an opinion of myown. '--`I have an opinion of my own, ' said I, `and it's none the less myown because it's the same as my brother's. '--`He daren't move a step byhimself now for that brother of his, ' sneered Saunders. --To this Ireplied, `I'll just give you an answer in the words of one whose opinionyou'll respect, I think, and it's this--'

 "I dare do all that may become a man, Who dares do more is none. "

"So says Shakespeare, and so say I. --Then they took to abusing Amosagain; so I just told them that I had found by experience that mybrother's advice and opinion were worth taking, and that I had no wishto hear him cried down unless they could show that he was wrong. Well, you may suppose that we soon found out that our horses wanted to godifferent ways; so we raised our hats to one another and took leave, andthus ended the partnership of Huntingdon, Gregson, and Saunders. "

There was silence for a while, during which the hands of the twobrothers were clasped tightly in each other. At last Miss Huntingdonsaid, "Now, dear Walter, you may make your laurel crown whenever youplease, and I shall be only too happy to place it myself on your head--yes, the crown fairly won by an act of true and lofty moral courage. "

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

A FEW BACKWARD STEPS. 

A year slipped rapidly by after the return of Julia Vivian to her home. Her unhappy husband had not shown himself anywhere in the neighbourhood, nor had he sent her a single letter. She herself gradually recoveredher once lively spirits, and scattered much brightness round her. MissHuntingdon would have retired, and left her to take the management ofher father's household, but she implored her not to do so; and as MrHuntingdon himself evidently preferred that his sister should keep herusual position in the family, at any rate for the present, sheconsented, hoping that the united influence of Amos and herself might bethe means, under God, of bringing Julia and Walter to take a decidedstand on the Lord's side. 

So far, Walter was manifestly anxious to do what was right and tosupport his elder brother in his endeavours to bring a holy peace intothe household. But his good intentions were often thwarted by hisnatural self-esteem. As for Julia, she was by no means prepared to seethings in the same light that Amos did. Naturally high-spirited andself-willed, her troubles had rather bent her down for a while than inany degree permanently improved her character, --for there never was atruer remark than that of an old writer when he says, "Circumstances donot _make_ us what we are, they rather _show_ what we are. " And nowthat one of her heaviest burdens was gone, she was very reluctant tocurb her temper or give up her own will when to Amos it was her plainduty to do so. Self was none the less her idol because much of thegilding with which it had been adorned in happier days had been rudelyrasped from it. She wished to please Amos, but she wished to pleaseherself more. And whenever Amos's views and those of Walter did notquite coincide, she always took side with the younger brother. Amos sawthis, of course, but he was willing to bide his time. One part of hisgreat object had been accomplished, --his sister had been restored to herold home and to her father's heart. 

Mr Huntingdon, of course, never alluded to the past, and took greatdelight in his grandchildren, who were left pretty much to the care andtraining of an excellent servant whom Amos had chosen for them by hisfather's desire, and also to the loving and wise instructions of MissHuntingdon; for their mother professed that she had not yet recoveredhealth and energy sufficient to enable her to look after them herself. Amos saw this with regret, and wished that his sister could take a rightview of her duty in the matter. At the same time he felt sure that theday had not yet come for making any attempt to bring his mother homeagain. He must defer this his cherished hope and purpose till hissister should have come to a different and better mind. For as sherecovered herself, which she soon did, from the effects of her late lifeof trial and privation, Julia Vivian gave herself up almost entirely toreading amusing books, fishing, riding, and making one in any littleparty of pleasure which could be got up for her. She saw her childrenjust for a few minutes night and morning, but evidently felt it rather adistasteful toil than a pleasure if anything obliged her now and then togive them a little extra attention. Indeed, she seemed to have got theidea firmly fixed in her mind that she was now to get all the enjoymentshe could to make up for past years of trouble, and that the mainbusiness of her two brothers was to provide for her comfort andentertainment. And very charming she could make herself when her owntastes and whims were gratified, but anything like thwarting oropposition produced in her at once gloom and irritation. For herfather's sake and the credit of the family she abstained from showingherself at large parties and entertainments where many of the guestswould know a good deal about her past history; but whenever she couldjoin in a bit of excitement without bringing herself into notice, shewas wild to avail herself of the opportunity, and would not let childrenor home be any hindrance if she could possibly help it. 

Summer had arrived, when one morning the post brought Mr Huntingdon ahuge bill printed in letters of various shapes, colours, and sizes, fromwhich it appeared that "the wonderful acrobat, Signor Giovani Telitetti, of world-wide celebrity, would exhibit some marvellous feats, toconclude with a dance on the high rope. " The entertainment was to begiven in a park situate in the next county, about ten miles distant fromFlixworth Manor. 

"There, " said the squire, tossing the bill from him, so that it floatedon to the loaf and settled there, "I suppose we shall none of us thinkit worth while to ride or drive ten miles to see this wonderfulperformer. "

"Oh, I should so like to go!" cried Julia, when she had glanced throughthe bill. 

"You, my child!" exclaimed her father in astonishment. 

"Oh yes, father. Why not?"

"I should have thought, " said her aunt, "that you--"

But here her niece interrupted her. "O auntie, there can be no possibleharm. No one will notice us; there will be thousands of people, and weshall be lost in the crowd. People are never so thoroughly alone aswhen they are in the middle of a great crowd. "

"And who is to go with you?" asked Mr Huntingdon. 

"Oh, of course I don't expect dear sober old Amos to go, he is quiteabove such things; but Walter might take me, --wouldn't you, dearWalter?--Now, may I go, dear father, if Walter takes me? It will besuch fun cantering there and back this delightful summer weather. " Shelooked at Walter beseechingly, and her father hem'd and ha'd, not quiteknowing what to say. "It's settled, " she cried, clapping her hands. "Now, Walter, you can't say no. "

"When is it to come off?" asked the squire. 

"Next Wednesday, " she replied. "Please don't trouble about it, " sheadded; "it will be all right. I will be as grave as a duenna; and whenI come back Amos shall read me an essay on prudence, and I will listento every word and be so good. "

No further opposition was attempted, and Walter considered himself boundto escort his sister. 

On the following Wednesday, after luncheon, Walter and Julia set off forthe place of amusement in high spirits. Julia was looking speciallybright and attractive; and Walter, though he did not feel fullysatisfied in going, yet threw himself now into the excitement with allhis might, partly for his sister's sake, and partly to drown any murmursof conscience which he was not prepared to listen to. So with a merryringing laugh they set off, and arrived at the park on the best termswith themselves and with each other. Large numbers of people hadalready assembled, and the place was glowing with banners and glitteringdevices, and resounding with the vigorous music of a brass band. SignorTelitetti was to be the special attraction, but there were many otherobjects of interest and excitement forming part of the entertainment. Among these were a small theatre, and a tent in which were variousenticing-looking articles to be raffled for. The noble park, with itsgroups of trees of different species, its sloping sward, and a lake inthe centre well stocked with water-fowl of various kinds, gave ampleroom and amusement to the motley multitude which had gathered for theshow. 

Walter and his sister, having left their horses at a neighbouringstable, paid their money at the gate, strolled into the park, and madetheir way amongst the crowds bent like themselves on getting as large adraught of excitement as the occasion would afford. As they came nearthe tent, they encountered Gregson and Saunders arm in arm. The youngmen took off their hats with an exaggerated show of politeness, andSaunders said half out loud as they passed on, "Not going in just atpresent for the raffle, I suppose. " Walter coloured, but did not reply;but he began to feel a hearty dislike to the whole thing, and would havegladly beat a hasty retreat had he been alone. But now a more thanordinarily vehement flourish of music warned the spectators that SignorTelitetti was about to commence his athletic wonders. All crowded up tothe place of exhibition, which was a broad open space in the very midstof the park, where a wooden structure had been erected, representingsome grand palace or temple in Eastern style, and being gorgeously andprofusely painted and gilded. In front of this were various smallerwooden erections, set up for the purpose of exhibiting the powers of theacrobat; while from the highest part of the sham palace a stout rope wasled along at a considerable height from the ground to a neighbouringtree, from that tree to a second, and then down to the ground by a rapidincline. 

All eyes were on the signor as he took his stand in front of the woodenbuilding. Walter and his sister had pressed nearly to the edge of thecrowd, and gazed with the deepest interest on the performer, who washabited in the tight-fitting garment usually worn by persons of hiscalling, his head, however, being enveloped in a strangely made, many-coloured cap, which very much concealed his features; indeed it lookedas if he were wearing a sort of mask, and that his eyes alone wereunhidden. Had Walter or his sister seen him anywhere before? Walterwas not sure, and yet he had an impression that there was somethingabout the man familiar to him, but perhaps it was only the generalsimilarity to others dressed for exhibitions of the like kind. He wassurprised, however, and startled to find his sister, as she leaned herfull weight on his arm, trembling violently. It might have been merelyexcitement; but the announcement that the signor's feats were about tocommence prevented his asking his sister the cause of her agitation. And now all sorts of strange contortions, unnatural postures, andperverse displays of muscular eccentricity were gone through by theexhibitor, much to the satisfaction of the applauding crowd. As toWalter, somehow or other the whole thing seemed full of emptiness. Whywas it so? Surely because, to use the forcible language of Chalmers, "the expulsive power of a superior affection" had begun to make suchexhibitions distasteful to him. However, he had not much time forreflection. The acrobat was now coming to his performances on the rope. Hitherto his exertions and feats had been attended simply withdifficulty; now they were to be attended with danger, and were thereforelooked upon by the multitude with thrilling and breathless interest. Springing upon the rope, pole in hand, he made his way rapidly up thesloping cord, then from one tree to another, and then high in mid-air tothe summit of the wooden palace or temple. Vehement bursts of applauserewarded him for this feat accomplished. And now he came down from hisheight on his return journey, which he accomplished with perfect ease. Again he was in the act of ascending, when, looking round for a momenton the crowd below him, his eye fell on Walter and his sister. Then achange appeared to come over him, --he seemed to have lost his steadinessand self-possession. Nevertheless he continued his upward course. Butwhen he had gained the part of the rope which sloped upwards to thetemple, and was about to exhibit some daring feat of agility, twice didhe make the effort unsuccessfully, and then, in a third violent attempt, missed his foothold, and fell to the ground amongst the terror-strickenspectators. 

Frightful then were the excitement and the cries of the horrifiedmultitude. Some rushed to raise the poor fallen man, while the policestruggled to keep back the surging crowd. Drawn on by a strange andterrible fascination, Walter and his sister pressed forward to where theunhappy acrobat lay bleeding and insensible. His features were now moreplainly visible, --there could be no mistake about him. Signor Telitettiwas none other than Orlando Vivian. 

"We must take him to the hospital, poor fellow, as quickly as possible, "said one of the policemen. A stretcher was accordingly brought, and thepoor shattered player was carried speedily forth from the scene of histransitory triumphs. 

"And what shall _we_ do?" asked Walter in a disturbed whisper to hissister. 

"Oh, take me home! take me home!" she cried; "I can't bear it. "

"But ought we not to go and look after him?" asked her brother. 

"Take me home! take me home!" was all her cry, and the horses were soonbrought and mounted; while the vast crowd melted gradually away, subdued, and exchanging half-whispered words of surprise and dismay. 

Sadly and slowly did the brother and sister make their way home toFlixworth Manor, neither venturing a word for some miles. At lastJulia, drawing as close to her brother as possible, said in a voice ofagitated entreaty, "Walter, dear Walter, you _must_ promise me onething. "

"What is that?" he asked gloomily. 

She noticed his manner, and cried, "O Walter, you must; indeed youmust. "

"Must what?" he asked. 

"Oh, you must promise me not to breathe to any one at home--not to myfather, not to my aunt, not to any one at all, and least of all toAmos--who it was that--that met with this sad accident to-day. Will youpromise me?" Walter was silent for a minute or more. "Oh!" sheexclaimed passionately, "you will, you must; I shall be miserable if youdo not. "

"But, " said her brother, "will this be right? ought you not to go toyour poor wretched husband? Perhaps he is dying. I am sure Amos wouldsay that you ought. "

"Never mind what Amos would say, " she exclaimed angrily; "I have notgiven up my conscience into his keeping. It's of no use; I havesuffered enough for _him_ (you know who I mean) and from him already. He can't be better cared for than he will be at the hospital. If I wereto go to him he would only swear at me. "

"But it will be sure to come out and be generally known who he is, sooner or later, " her brother replied; "and what good can be done byconcealing it now?"

"Only the good of doing your poor sister a kindness, " she said bitterlyand pettishly. "But I don't see why it need come out; and it will betime for it to be known at home when it does come out. "

"Well, " said Walter reluctantly, "I promise--"

"There's a dear, good brother, " she said; "you have taken a load off mymind. And as for him, we can get to hear from the hospital people howhe is going on, and I can but go to him if they give a very bad report. "

Her brother made no further reply, and the rest of the journey wascompleted almost in silence. 

Every one at the Manor was of course deeply interested in the storywhich Walter had to tell, and shocked at the dreadful termination of theexhibition in the park. That Julia looked scared and ill was naturallyno matter of wonder to anybody; to have witnessed such an accident wasenough to upset the strongest nerves. In a day or two, however, she hadpretty nearly recovered her former spirits, for the newspaper account ofthe terrible catastrophe finished by stating that Signor Telitetti wasgoing on well; an arm and two or three ribs had been broken, and thebody generally much bruised and shaken, but the hospital surgeons didnot anticipate fatal results, --it was expected that in a few weeks thesignor would be able to go about again. But though this news had comeas a relief to Julia Vivian, and raised her spirits, there was by nomeans unclouded sunshine in her face or words. Conscience _would_speak, and it spoke in low but distinct utterances of condemnation. Shecould see, too, that Walter was not altogether feeling towards her as hehad done before the accident. She had sunk in his esteem; he clearlydid not take the same pleasure in consulting her wishes and getting upschemes for her amusement as formerly. To her aunt and Amos she rarelyspoke, except when compelled to do so; and her father would often lookat her anxiously, fearing that her health was giving way. 

Amos wondered a little, and asked his brother if he could account forthe change in their sister; for though at times she was hurried along bya perfect gale of boisterous spirits, at others she was swallowed up bythe profoundest gloom. Walter's answer was evasive, and left animpression on his brother's mind that there was something amiss whichhad been kept back from him. He made several loving attempts to drawhis sister out of herself, and to lead her to confide her sorrows ordifficulties to him, but all in vain: and when he attempted gently toguide her thoughts to Him who alone could give her true peace, she wouldturn from him with a vexed expression of countenance and an air ofalmost disdain. Poor Amos! how grievously was he disappointed to findthe sister for whom he had done and suffered so much getting, now thatshe was restored to her old home, more and more out of sympathy with himin what was highest and best, and giving herself up to reckless andunmitigated selfishness. But he did not, he would not despair. Muchhad been accomplished already, and, though things were looking black, and heavy clouds were gathering, he would still wait and work in faithand patience, remembering that when the night is darkest the dawn isnearest. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN. 

IN THE DARK VALLEY. 

Six weeks after the sad accident in the park the squire sat in thelibrary after breakfast reading the county paper. Suddenly he turnedvery red, and his chest heaved with emotion, as his eyes ran rapidlythrough the following paragraph:--

"Extraordinary Proceeding at the County Hospital. 

"It will be remembered that some few weeks ago a terrible accidenthappened to one Signor Telitetti, an acrobat of professedly world-widereputation. The unfortunate man, while performing on the high rope inthe presence of some thousands of spectators, suddenly lost his self-possession, or experienced some failure in power, and in consequencefell from a considerable height to the ground. He was taken to thehospital, where, under the skilful treatment of the medical officers, hemade rapid progress towards returning health and strength, havingsuffered no more serious injuries than the breaking of an arm and two orthree ribs. To the astonishment, however, and perplexity of thehospital officials, the signor has managed to leave the premisesunobserved, and in his still feeble condition, and with his arm yet in asling, to get clear away, so that no one had any idea what had become ofhim. The reason, however, of this move on his part is becoming prettyplain, for it is now being more than whispered about that SignorTelitetti is no foreigner after all, but that this name is only oneamong many aliases borne by a disreputable stroller and swindler, whosome time since victimised Lady Gambit by cheating her out of twentypounds. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate man, dreading lestthe police should pounce upon him when he left the hospital fully cured, contrived to elude their vigilance by taking himself off at a time whenno one would suspect him of wishing or being able to change hisquarters. "

Mr Huntingdon read this over and over again, and his brow contracted asmany painful thoughts crowded in upon him. Then, rising, he repaired tothe morning room, where the other members of the family were assembled, reading or answering their letters. Taking the paper to Amos, he placedhis finger on the painful paragraph, and signed to him to read it. Amosdid so with a beating heart and troubled brow. "Anything amiss, father?" asked Walter, noticing the grave look on the faces of MrHuntingdon and his brother. The squire made no reply, but, holding outhis hand for the paper, passed it to his younger son. Julia, lookingup, noticed the flushed face of her brother, and, before her fathercould prevent her, sprang up and, leaning over Walter's shoulder, readthe article. Then, with a wild cry, she rushed out of the room. 

"Oh! what is the trouble?" exclaimed Miss Huntingdon in a tone of greatdistress. Once more the paper was passed on, and she read thehumiliating paragraph. 

All were silent for a while. Then Miss Huntingdon said, "I must go topoor Julia. "

"Do so, " said the squire; "but come back as soon as you can. "

His sister soon returned, saying that her niece had been much upset bywhat she had read, but would be better shortly. 

"And now, " said Mr Huntingdon, "I want to know if Julia was aware whothe signor was at the time when the accident happened. "

"She was, " said Walter sorrowfully. 

"And could she leave her wretched husband, wounded and perhaps dying, without an attempt to see that he was properly cared for?"

"Father, " replied Walter, "it was so, and I deeply grieve over it. Itried to persuade her at the time--for we both knew him too well as helay on the ground at our feet senseless and bleeding--I tried topersuade her that it was her duty to go with him; but she would not hearof it; she insisted on returning home at once, and said that he would bewell looked after at the hospital, and that if she were to go to him hewould only swear at her. So at last I gave it up; and she would not bepacified till I promised not to mention to any one that I knew thewretched man to be her husband. I suppose I was wrong in giving thispromise, --I have never felt comfortable about it; but she was somiserable till I made it that I gave her my word; and that is just howit was. "

"I quite understand you, " said his father. "Poor Julia! we must makeallowances for her; but she has plainly fallen short of her duty in thematter. I trust, however, that she has now had a wholesome lesson, poorthing, and that for her children's sake, and all our sakes, she will becontent with her own home, and more ready to fulfil her duties as amother. "

Amos did not speak, but he was deeply moved. He felt that his sister'sproper place would have been at the bedside of the man who, whatever hissins against her, was still her husband, and was when the accident hadhappened, for anything she knew to the contrary, crushed and dying, andabout to be speedily separated from her for ever in this world. But shehad not so seen her duty; she had shrunk from the pain, the sacrifice. She could not bear the thought of the interruption to her recovered homecomforts and pleasures which the work of a nurse to the stricken manwould involve. And could Amos make her see and acknowledge that she haderred? He feared not. 

Dinner-time came. Julia was in her place as usual. There was a gloomover all the party, but no one alluded to the sad cause. And so, thingsreverted to their ordinary channel in a few days. Julia had becomeagain full of life and spirits, though to close observers there wassomething forced and unnatural about her mirth and vivacity. And onething Amos noticed with special pain--it was that she carefully avoidedever being alone with him; if they were accidentally left together bythemselves, she would in a moment or two make some excuse for leavingthe room. 

Thus did things continue, till summer had given place to the richbeauties of autumn. It was on a mellow October morning that the postbrought a letter for Amos in a handwriting which was not familiar tohim, and from a locality with which he was not acquainted. It was asfollows:--

"Dear Sir, --In the course of my duties as Scripture reader in the townof Collingford, I have come upon a case which has greatly interested me. The reason for my troubling you about it will appear further on in myletter. I was calling about a fortnight ago on a poor widow woman wholives in one of the lowest parts of this town, in a miserable house, orrather part of it. She asked me to step into a small back room and seea lodger whom she had taken in some days before, and who was in a verybad state of health, and indeed not likely to recover. I did as shedesired, and found a wretched-looking man seated in an old armchair, bowed together, and racked with a severe cough. One of his arms was ina sling, and he seemed to be suffering considerable pain in his leftside. There was something in his appearance different from that ofordinary tramps; and when I heard him speak, I saw at once that he musthave had a good education. I could make very little out of him atfirst, for he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyedwhen I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the first visit, and hesaid some very sharp things against religion and the Bible. However, Ipersevered, and he got a little softened, especially when I brought hima little help and a few comforts from some Christian friends who had gotinterested in him. He has always avoided speaking about himself and hispast history, and I suspect that he is hiding from the police. However, I have nothing to do with that, and am truly sorry for him. Thismorning I called and found him much worse. I asked him if he would likeme to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear of it. Then Iasked him if I could do anything more for him. He did not speak forsome time, and then he said, `Yes. Write a few lines for me to Mr AmosHuntingdon'--he gave me your address--`and just tell him how I am. Hewill know me by the name of Orlando Vivian. ' `Shall I say anythingmore?' I asked. `No, ' he said; `please, just say that, and leave it. 'So, dear sir, I have followed the poor gentleman's wishes. I call him agentleman, for I think he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man! Ifear he is dying, and cannot be here very long. At the same time, Ifeel it to be my duty to tell you that there is a bad fever raging inthe town, and the place where he lives is anything but clean andhealthy. And now I have only to ask your pardon for troubling you withthis long letter, and to say that I shall be very happy to do anythingfor your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power, or to meet you atthe Collingford station, should you think it right to come down and seehim. --I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris. "

It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What couldbe done? What was his duty? What was his sister's duty? He felt inperplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bidsus cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt's roomand read the letter to her. "What shall I do, dear aunt?" he asked. 

"The question, I think, rather is, " replied Miss Huntingdon, "What oughtnot your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to herpoor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, andbe with him to the last. "

"Such is my conviction too, " said Amos sadly; "but I fear that Juliawill not see her duty in the light in which we see it. May I call her, and just read the letter to her before you?"

"Yes, dear boy, if you like. " So Amos repaired to the dining-room, where his sister and Walter were engaged in a brisk conversation. 

"What's amiss with you now?" asked Walter, noticing the serious look onhis brother's face. "You ought to be very bright this beautifulmorning. Julia and I have been planning a nice little scheme for thisafternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper's help, to bag two or threebrace of partridges before dinner-time. I can drive Julia to thegamekeeper's hut, and she can take a sketch or two while I am shooting. The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal tints, and willgive lovely little bits for a sketch. Won't you join us?"

"Well, " replied Amos gravely, "it would be very nice; but just now Ihave a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if shewill just spare me a few minutes, and come with me to my aunt's room. "

"Dear me! what can you want with _me_?" asked his sister, turning deepred and then very pale. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about anythingdismal this delicious morning. Oh! don't look so serious, Amos; you arealways in the dolefuls now. Why can't you be cheerful and jolly, likeWalter?"

"I am sorry to trouble you, " replied her brother, "but there is a causejust now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to yourjollity if you will. " These last words he uttered in a tone of reproachwhich touched her spite of herself. 

She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt's room. When all wereseated, Amos produced the Scripture reader's letter, and, expressing hisdeep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subduedvoice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having snatched the letter fromher brother's hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving andher eyes flashing, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. "It's ahoax, " she cried at last; "one of _his_ hoaxes. It can't be true. "

"I fear it _is_ true, " said Amos calmly. "To me the letter bears allthe marks of truth. --Don't you think so, Aunt Kate?"

"Yes, surely, " replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; "I cannot doubt itsgenuineness. "

Julia then tossed the letter to her brother and sat down. "And what isit, then, " she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows, "that you want meto do?"

"I think, dear Julia, " said her aunt, "the real question is, What is ityour duty to do?"

"Oh yes, " she cried passionately; "my duty! Duty's a very fine thing. It's always `duty, duty. ' But there are two parties to duty: has _he_done his duty? He has beaten me, starved me, cursed me--is that doinghis duty? And now I am to go and nurse him in a vile fever-smittenhole, and lose my life, and so deprive my children of a mother, becauseit's my duty. I don't see it at all. "

Both her hearers looked deeply distressed. Then Amos said, "Still he isyour husband, and dying. "

"Dying!" she exclaimed sneeringly; "not he--it's all pretence. Ifanything common could have killed him, such as kills other people, hewould have been dead ages ago. But he isn't like other men; he has gota charmed life. He'll be all right again after a while. "

"And you will not go to him?" asked Amos, calmly and sadly. 

"No, certainly not, " she cried indignantly. "I've suffered more thanenough already for him and from him. Besides, if you talk of duty, itis surely my duty to think of the dear children, and not run the risk ofbringing back the fever to them, supposing I should not be killed by itmyself. "

"Then, " said her brother deliberately, "_I_ shall go. "

"You, Amos!" exclaimed both his aunt and sister. 

"Yes, " he said; "my own duty is now plain to me. The poor man has letme know his case; he is my sister's husband, however unworthy a husband;he is dying, and may be eternally lost body and soul, and by going I maybe made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader's work. Thepoor dying man's heart is softened just now, and it may be that when hehears the words of God's truth, and experiences kindness from one whohas been treated by him as I have been, he may be led to seek and findpardon before he is taken away. "

"But, " said his aunt anxiously, "you will be running a great risk ofcatching the fever, and may lose your own health, and even your life. "

"I know it, " he said; "I have counted the cost; and should I be takenaway, I shall merely have done my duty, and"--his voice trembled as heproceeded--"I shall be the one best spared and least missed in thehousehold. " As he uttered these last words, his sister, who had beengradually crouching down shiveringly on to the floor, clasped her handsover her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word. Then Amosturned to his aunt and said, "Will you, dear aunt, kindly explain to myfather how matters are, and why I am gone?--Poor Julia!" he added, raising her up gently and kissing her forehead, "all may yet be well. May I take him _one_ kind word from you?" She did not speak, but herbosom heaved convulsively. At last she said in a hoarse, quiveringwhisper, "Yes, what you like; and--write and tell me if he is reallydying. " Then she rushed out of the room to her own chamber, butappeared at luncheon with all traces of emotion vanished from herfeatures. 

The squire was absent attending a business meeting in the neighbouringtown, and nothing had yet been said to Walter on the subject of hisbrother's departure. That afternoon Amos set off for Collingford, andWalter and his sister on their shooting and sketching expedition, whichproved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure to Julia wasconcerned. 

Collingford was nearly a day's journey from Flixworth Manor, so it wasnot till dark that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out at once theScripture reader, and obtained full information as to the state of thepoor sufferer. Could he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick manwas? Mr Harris shook his head. 

"I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection, " saidAmos. "I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord's hands till itis done. He has sent me, and he will keep me. "

The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. "You shall lodgein my house, " he said, "if you can be satisfied with humble fare and myplain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman wholooks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and gojust as you please. "

"I will take you at your word, my friend, " said the other, "and willgladly pay for bed and board. "

"All right, all right, " cried Mr Harris: "and for my part I am notgoing to pry into your reasons for coming. You are one of the Lord'sservants on an errand of mercy and self-denying love--I can see that;and you are welcome to my services and my silence. "

Amos thanked him warmly, and his moderate luggage was soon deposited inthe Scripture reader's dwelling. 

The next morning, after an early breakfast, the two friends--for truefriends they at once became in the bonds of the gospel, loving Christ'simage in each other--set out for Orlando Vivian's lodging. 

"You must be prepared for something very miserable, " said the Scripturereader. 

"I am prepared for anything, " said the other calmly. But truly Amos wasstaggered when he entered the room where sat, in the midst of gloom andfilth, the man who had been the cause of so much distress to him andhis. The atmosphere was oppressive with the concentrated foulness ofnumberless evil odours. A bed there was in the darkest corner of theroom on the floor. It looked as though composed of the refuse rakedfrom a pig-sty, and thrust into a sack which had been used for theconveyance of dust and bones. Bolster or pillow it had none, butagainst the wall, where the bed's head was supposed to be, were three orfour logs of rough wood piled together, over which was laid a fadedcloak crumpled into a heap. Such was the only couch which the unhappysufferer had to lay him down upon at night, or when weary of sitting inthe high-backed, creaking armchair. Uncleanness met the eye on everyside--in the one greasy plate, on which lay a lump of repulsive-lookingfood; in the broken-mouthed jug, which reeked with the smell of stalebeer; in the window, whose bemired and cobwebbed panes kept out morelight than they admitted; in the ceiling, between whose smoke-grimedrafters large rents allowed many an abomination to drop down from thecrowded room above; in the three-legged table, which, being loose in allits decaying joints, reeled to and fro at every touch; in the spiders, beetles, and other self-invited specimens of the insect tribe, which hadlong found a congenial home in these dismal quarters. And there--worn, haggard, hungry, suffering, helpless--in the midst of all thisdesolation, sat the broken-down, shattered stroller, coughing every nowand then as though the spasm would rend him in pieces. 

The heart of Amos was touched at the terrible sight with a feeling ofthe profoundest pity, as he approached the chair occupied by the wreckof what might have been a man noble and good, loving and loved. Anything like resentment was entirely lost in his desire to alleviate ifhe could the misery he saw before him. 

"I have brought a friend to see you, " said Mr Harris, stepping forward. The sick man raised his head slowly, and, as his eyes fell on Amos, hetrembled violently, and clutched his chair with a convulsive grasp. Then a fit of coughing came on, and all were silent. "I will leave youtogether, if you please, " said the Scripture reader after a pause toAmos. "You know where to find me if I am wanted, " and he retired. 

Long was it before the unhappy man could trust himself to speak. Atlast, having sipped a little of a soothing mixture which Mr Harris hadbrought him, he turned his face towards his brother-in-law, who had nowtaken a seat in front of him on a three-legged stool, and said, "Shall Itell you why I sent to you, Mr Huntingdon?" Amos inclined his head. "It was, " continued the sick man, "because I have insulted you, deceivedyou, entrapped you, and threatened your life. That would be in mostcases the very reason why you should have been the very last person Ishould have sent to. But I believe you are _real_. I believe you are atrue Christian, if there is such a thing. _I_ am not real. I am asham, a cheat, a lie; my whole life has been a lie; my unbelief has beena lie. But, if there is truth in the Bible and in Christianity, Ibelieve you have found it. I am sure that you are real and genuine. Ifelt it when I was deceiving you, and I feel it more and more the more Ithink about it. So, as I am told that it is part of the character ofthose who really take the Bible for their guide to return good for evil, I have sent to you. "

He had uttered these words in broken sentences, and now sank backexhausted. When he had recovered himself sufficiently to listen, Amos, deeply moved, said kindly and earnestly, "You did right, my poor friend, to send to me; and now I am here, I must see what I can do for you. "

"But, can you really forgive me?" said the other, fixing his dark eyeson his visitor. "Remember how I have behaved to yourself; remember howI have behaved to your sister. Can you really forgive me. "

Amos made no immediate reply, but, taking out of his pocket a small NewTestament which he had purposely brought with him, read in a clear, earnest voice the parable of the unmerciful servant, and, when he hadfinished it, added, "How could I ever hope for forgiveness from God if Icould not forgive the transgressions of a poor fellow-sinner againstmyself? Yes, my poor brother, I do freely forgive you; and oh, let mehave the happiness of seeing you seek forgiveness of Him who has still aplace in his heart and in his kingdom for you. "

The poor sufferer struggled in vain to conceal his strong emotion. Tears, sobs would burst forth. A violent fit of coughing came on, andfor a time Amos feared a fatal result. But at length the sick manregained composure and a lull from his cough, and then said, with slowand painful effort, "It is true. I believe your religion is true. Icannot doubt it. It is real, for you are real. It is real for you, but, alas! not real for me. "

Amos was going to turn to another passage in his New Testament, but theother waved his hand impatiently. "No more of that now, " he said; "Ihave other things just at present on my mind. You know that I am adoomed man. The police are looking out for me; but I shall cheat themyet. Death will have me first. Yes, I am a dying man. --Of course _she_has not come with you. Perhaps you have not told her that you werecoming. Well, it's better she shouldn't come; there's fever about, andI have dragged her down low enough already. This is no place for her. But I shall not be here long to trouble any of you. Will you tell herthat I am sorry for my past treatment of her? and keep an eye on thechildren, will you, as you have done? Oh, don't let them come to this!"Here the unhappy man fairly broke down. 

When he had again partially recovered, Amos begged him to keep himselfas quiet as he could, adding that all might yet be well, and that hemust now leave him, but would return again in a few hours. 

Having sought the good Scripture reader, and ascertained from him thatthe medical man gave no hopes of the unhappy man living more than a fewdays, Amos at once confided to his host the sad story of his sister'smarriage and its consequences, and now asked his advice and help as tohow he could make the remaining time of his brother-in-law's life ascomfortable as circumstances would permit. Mr Harris at once threwhimself heartily into the matter, and before night the dying man hadbeen tenderly conveyed from his miserable quarters to the Scripturereader's own dwelling, where everything was at once done that couldalleviate his sufferings and supply his wants. 

That same evening Amos wrote to his sister in these brief words:"Orlando is dying. A few days will end all. " He purposely added nowords of persuasion, nor any account of his interview with her husbandand what he had done for his comfort; for he feared that any suchaccount from himself might just steel her heart against any appeal, andmake her rest satisfied with what another was doing for the man whom shehad vowed to love in sickness as well as in health. He knew that hisscrap of a letter must prove startling by its abruptness; but he had nowish that it should be otherwise. These startling words might rouse herto a sense of her duty; if they did not, he felt that nothing would. 

Two days passed over. Orlando Vivian grew weaker and weaker, but wasfull of gratitude to Amos. He also listened with patience and respectwhen the Scripture was read to him or prayer offered by his side; but hemade no remark at such times. It was on the morning of the third dayafter the patient's removal to his new abode that a hired carriage drewup at the Scripture reader's door, and, to Amos's great pleasure andthankfulness, brought his sister. Yes, and he could tell by hergreeting of him and by her whole manner that a new light had dawned uponher heart and conscience, in which the idol of self had been seen by herin somewhat of its true deformity. "Oh, dear Amos!" she cried, as shewept on his shoulder, "pardon me; pity me. I have been wrong, oh, verywrong; but I hope, oh, I do hope that it is not yet quite too late!"Fondly pressing her to him, her brother told her that she had his fulland forgiving love; and then he gave her an account of what he had donesince his arrival in Collingford, and told her that her husband was nowin the same house as herself, and was receiving every attention andcomfort. On hearing this, Julia Vivian would have at once rushed intothe sick chamber, but Amos checked her, warning her of the effect such asudden appearance might have on one in his exhausted and sufferingcondition. He must himself break the news of her coming gradually. 

Entering the neat little bedroom, to his surprise Amos found hisbrother-in-law painfully agitated. "You have got a visitor, " he said, in a voice scarcely audible. "I heard a carriage drive up to the door, and since then I have heard a voice. Oh, can it be? Yes; I see it inyour eyes. "

"Calm yourself, my poor brother, " said Amos; "it is even as you suppose. Julia has come, and I am truly thankful for it. "

The humbled man tried to conceal his tears with his one uninjured hand, and said at last, "I think I can bear it now; let her come in. "

On her brother's invitation Julia entered. The eyes of the two met, --the eyes of the oppressor and the oppressed; but how changed in positionnow! The once down-trodden wife now radiant with health and beauty, abeauty heightened by its passing cloud of tender sadness. The onceoverbearing, heartless husband now a stranded wreck. How haggard helooked! and how those hollow sunken eyes swam with a tearful look thatcraved a pity which they seemed at the same time to despair of! Andcould she give that pity? Had he not forsaken her and her children, andleft them to grinding poverty? Had he not raised his hand against herand cruelly smitten her? Had he not laughed her to scorn? Had he notused her as a mere plaything, and then flung her aside, as the childdoes the toy which it has covered for a time with its caresses? He haddone all this, and more; and now she was there before him, but out ofhis clutches, and able, without fear of harm to herself, to charge himwith his past neglect and cruelty. Yes; the outraged wife could havedone this, but the woman's heart that throbbed in her bosom forbade it. She was the loving woman still, though the fountain of her love had beensealed for a time. Stealing gently up to his chair, lest any suddenmovement should agitate him too much, and yet quivering all the while inevery limb from suppressed excitement, she bowed herself over him, andgathered his head softly to her bosom, whispering, "Poor, dear Orlando, you are glad, are you not, to see me?" Then, as the huge rapid drops ofthe thunder-cloud, which has hung overhead for a time in the midst ofoppressive stillness, patter at first on the leaves one by one, and thenbreak into a sweeping deluge, so did a storm of weeping pour from theeyes and heart of that crushed and spirit-broken sinner. Hardly daringto place a hand with its pressure of answering love on the neck whichthat same hand had not long since disfigured with bruises and blood, heyet ventured at last to draw his wife closer to him, whispering, "It istoo much. " Sweetly soothing him, Julia helped him to dry his tears, andthen sat down by his side, taking the hand of his uninjured arm in herown. 

No one spoke again for a while. At last Mr Vivian roused himself to aneffort, and, disengaging his hand, looked his wife steadily andsorrowfully in the face. "Tell me, Julia, " he said, "tell me thetruth, --tell me, can you really and from your heart forgive me?--nay, donot speak till you have heard me out, "--for she was about to give aneager reply. "Consider well. You know what I have been to you, --thebrute, the tyrant, the traitor. Can you, then, in view of all the past, forgive me from your heart?"

"I can, I do, dear Orlando, from my very heart, " she cried; "and surelyI too have much to be forgiven. "

"Not by me, " he said earnestly. "And now, " he added, "as you haveassured me of your forgiveness, and as my days in this world can be butfew, --nay, I know it, I know it, --I have two dying requests to make ofyou, and only two. Will you grant me them?"

"Oh yes, yes, dear husband, if they are in my power. "

"They are perfectly within your power. The first is, that you would tryand pay back part of my deep debt of gratitude to your noblest ofbrothers, who is standing there--to Amos Huntingdon, whom _I_ dare notcall brother; and I will tell you how the payment is to be made--not ingold or silver, for he would not take such payment, but in givingyourself up to the service of that Saviour whom he has truly andcourageously followed. That, I know, would be the only payment he wouldcare to accept, and that will rejoice his heart. Will you promise?"

"Oh, that I will!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands passionatelytogether. "I have misunderstood, I have thwarted dear Amos shamefully, but now I can truly say, `His people shall be my people, and his God myGod. '"

"Thank you for that. My second request concerns our children. Promiseme that you will not take them from under your brother's eye, and thatyou will strive to bring them up as he would have you; then I shall knowthat they will be spared such misery as this, that they will not need tobe reminded, by way of warning, of the disgraceful example of theirunworthy and guilty father. "

"I promise, I promise!" cried the weeping wife, burying her face in herhusband's bosom. When she raised her eyes to his again there was asweet smile on her features as she said, "Dearest Orlando, all may yetbe well, even should you be taken from us. "

"For you, yes; for me, I cannot say, " was his reply. 

"Oh yes, " she cried earnestly; "I am sure that dear Amos has put beforeyou the way to the better land, open to us all through our lovingSaviour; and I prayed last night--oh, so earnestly--that you might findthat way. "

"Thank you for that, " he said mournfully; "it may be so; at any rate Ihave got thus far--I shall not cease to cry, so long as I have breath, `God be merciful to me a sinner. '" And these were the last words on thepoor penitent's lips. 

For three days after this interview he lingered in much pain, butwithout a murmur. Whenever Mr Harris or Amos read the Word of God andprayed he was deeply attentive, but made no remark. Julia wasconstantly with him, and poured out her rekindled love in a thousandlittle tender services. At last the end came: there was neither joy norpeace, but there was not despair, --just one little ray of hope lightedthe dark valley. 

When the unostentatious funeral was over, Amos and his sister returnedhome cast down yet hopeful and trustful. That evening a subdued buthappy little group gathered in Miss Huntingdon's private sitting-room, consisting of Amos, Julia, Walter, and their aunt. When Amos hadanswered many questions concerning the last days of his brother-in-law, Walter turned to his aunt and said, "Now, dear auntie, you have someexamples of moral courage ready for us I am sure. --Amos, you are to be agood boy, and not to turn your back upon the teacher, as I see you areinclined to do. I know why; but it does not matter. Julia and I wantdoing good to, if you don't; so let us all attend. "

"Yes, " said Miss Huntingdon, "I know what you mean, and so of coursedoes your brother; he does not wish to listen to his own praises, but hemust not refuse to listen to the praises of others, even though theirconduct may more or less resemble his own. I have some noble examplesof moral courage to bring before you, for I have been thinking much onthe matter since Amos and Julia left us. My heroes and heroines--for Ihave some of each sex--will now consist of those who have braved deathfrom disease or pestilence in the path of duty. And first of all, Imust go back to our old example of moral heroism--I mean, to one who hasalready furnished us with a lesson--John Howard. That remarkable manwas not satisfied with visiting the prisons, and bringing about reformsin them for the benefit and comfort of the poor prisoners. He wished toalleviate the sufferings of his fellow-creatures to a still greaterextent; so he formed the plan of visiting the hospitals and lazarettosset apart for contagious diseases in various countries. Amongst otherplaces he went to Smyrna and Constantinople when these cities weresuffering from the plague. From Smyrna he sailed in a vessel with afoul bill of health to Venice, where he became an inmate of a lazaretto. Here he was placed in a dirty room full of vermin, without table, chair, or bed. He employed a person to wash the room, but it was stilldirty and offensive. Suffering here with headache and slow fever, hewas removed to a lazaretto near the town, and had two rooms assignedhim, both in as dirty a state as that he had left. His active minddevised a plan for making these rooms more comfortable for the nextoccupant, and though opposed by the indolence and prejudices of thepeople about him, he contrived secretly to procure a quarter of a bushelof lime and a brush, and, by rising very early, and bribing hisattendant to help him, contrived to have the place completely purified. Now his object in thus exposing himself to infection and disease was notthat he might gratify some crotchet, or get a name with the world, butthat from personal experience of the unutterable miseries of such placesas these lazarettos were, he might be better able to suggest the needfulimprovements and remedies. This he had set before himself as his work;to this he believed that duty called him; and that was enough for him. Suffering, sickness, death, they were as nothing to him when weighed inthe balance against high and holy duty. "

"A noble hero indeed, dear auntie, " cried Walter; "and now for anotherof the same sort. "

"Well, my dear boy, my second example embraces many excellent men, alldevoted to the same self-denying and self-sacrificing work, --I am nowalluding to the Moravian missionaries. These truly heroic men, notcounting their lives dear, left home and friends, not to visit sunnylands, where the charms of the scenery might in a measure make up forthe toils and privations they had to undergo, nor to find among Arcticfrosts and snows at any rate pure and refreshing breezes, though many ofthem did go forth into these inclement regions to carry the gospel ofpeace with them, and in so doing to endure the most terrible hardships. But the Moravians I am now speaking of are those who volunteered toenter the pest-houses and infected places from which they could nevercome forth again. Here they lived, and here they died, giving up everyearthly comfort and attraction that they might set gospel truth beforethose whose infected and repulsive bodies made them objects of terrorand avoidance to all but those self-renouncing followers of theirSaviour. Here, indeed, moral courage has reached its height. "

"How wonderful!" said Julia thoughtfully, and with a sigh; "_I_ couldnever have done it. "

"No, " said Miss Huntingdon; "nor does God commonly require such servicefrom us. And yet, dear Julia, ladies as tenderly brought up as yourselfhave gone forth cheerfully to little short of certain death frompestilential airs, and have neither shrunk nor murmured when the callcame. And this brings me to my last example of what I may call sublimemoral courage or heroism. It is taken from the records of the ChurchMissionary Society. When first that society's noble work began, itsagents went forth to settle among the poor negroes of Western Africa inthe neighbourhood of Sierra Leone. But the fever that hovered on thecoast was enough to terrify any one who loved his life more than Christ. In the first twenty years of that mission no fewer than fifty-threemale and female missionaries died at their posts. In the year 1823, outof five who went out four died within six months, yet two yearsafterwards six presented themselves for that mission; and, indeed, sincethe formation of that mission there have never been men wanting--trueheroes of the Lord Jesus Christ--who have willingly offered themselvesfor the blessed but deadly service. The women were as devoted as themen. A bright young couple, the Reverend Henry Palmer and his wife, landed at Sierra Leone on March 21, 1823. In the beginning of May, nottwo full months afterwards, the husband was dead; in June, just onemonth later, the wife was dead also. Yet neither spoke in their dyingmoments one word of regret, but gloried in the work and in the sacrificethey had been called to make. Another female missionary to the sameparts, a widow, said: `I have now lived one year in Africa, eight monthsof which I have been a widow; but I cannot resolve to leave Africa. 'Another, whose course was finished in twenty-two short days, said to herhusband on her death-bed: `Never once think that I repent of coming herewith you. ' Her only fear seemed to be lest her death should discourageothers, or damp her husband's zeal. --I have now finished my examples. Iam sure, dear children, that they are to the point; I mean, that theyare examples of the sublimest moral courage--that courage which leadsgodly men and women not to shrink from duty though disease and death liebefore them or hover over their path. "

"Thank you, dearest auntie, " said Walter; "you have indeed brought someglorious examples before us, and they just fit in with the conduct ofour own dear hero here, who seems to wish us to forget that there everwas such a person as Amos Huntingdon, but he certainly won't succeed. "

CHAPTER TWENTY. 

FURTHER PROGRESS. 

How greatly did Amos rejoice that now one portion of the great purposeto which he had devoted himself had been so thoroughly accomplished; hisdear sister had been restored to her earthly home, and the death of herunhappy husband had taken away all fear of her being withdrawn from itagain. And, better still, she, the poor wayward and wandering sheep, who till late did not love the fold nor the Good Shepherd's voice, hadbeen sought and found by him, and brought back from the wilderness withrejoicings. The heart of the good brother overflowed with gratitude andpraise for this, for it was more than he had yet dared to hope. Butthere could be no doubt about it. The eyes of his sister had beenopened to see how entirely she had hitherto been living to self, whileher husband's dying words had led her to see her duty to her children, and to mourn over her ingratitude to Amos. 

There was one little circumstance which specially touched that brother'sheart. On the Sunday after her return from her parting visit to herhusband, Julia appeared at church in deep mourning, her children wearingthe same; and at dinner she had put on a neat widow's cap. Amos hadrather expected that she would have treated her married life as a thingso entirely to be forgotten--a thing of misery and shame, a thing of thepast to be henceforth to her and others as though it had never been, except so far as her children were concerned--that she would havecontinued to dress herself and her little ones as usual, so as not byany outward sign to remind those around her that she had suffered anyloss, or recall their thoughts to the man who had brought nothing butdegradation to herself and disgrace to her family. He was thereforedeeply thankful to see that she had taken a different course; for ittold of a subdued and chastened spirit, and of a willingness to bearpatiently and meekly the burden which her own fault, in a measure atleast, had laid upon her. Mr Huntingdon also appreciated her conductin this matter, and, pressing her fondly to him as she was retiring torest, kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear, as he lookedlovingly into her tearful eyes, "Dear child, this is as it should be;you are right, I am sure, in adopting this dress; it would have beenunworthy of you and unbecoming not to have done so. " Old Harry, however, was not quite of the same mind; but he would not wound any ofthe members of the family upstairs by giving expression to his feelingson the subject. But in the kitchen he spoke out his sentiments withoutany reserve. "Put herself and the children in mourning for such ascoundrel as him! Why, if it had been me, I'd have clothed myself andthem in scarlet and gold, just to show how glad I was to be shut of sucha scamp for good and all. But perhaps I'm wrong; they tell me the poorman repented at the last. Well, a good thing for him if he did, for I'msure he'd a precious lot to repent of. "

And now Amos bent his mind and energies towards the accomplishment ofthat part of his life's great purpose which lay yet nearer, if possible, to his heart than even his sister's restoration to her father's houseand affection. His mother was still a stranger to her home;--how shouldhe bring her back? He felt that he must deal in the matter with agentle and cautious hand. His aunt and the old butler were the onlymembers of the household who as yet knew of his desire and intention. Mr Huntingdon had come to acquiesce in his wife's absence as a sadnecessity, and it did not now occur to him to connect his daughter'sreturn with the possibility of its being directly or indirectly a linkin the recovery of the mother from her mental disorder. Walter alsonever put the two things together. Indeed, the state of his mother wasso distressing a subject, that he had come to act upon the convictionthat the less he thought about it the better. 

But what could Amos do? Turning matters over in his mind, it became anestablished purpose with him to bring about his mother's perfectrestoration to sanity without letting his father have any suspicion ofwhat he was attempting. With all his love for that father, he could nothelp having a strong conviction that, were he to consult him in thematter, the attempt at restoration would probably prove a failure. Either Mr Huntingdon would take things into his own hands, and, actingwith characteristic impetuosity and bluffness, would most likely hinderwhere he meant to help forward, or else he would fail perhaps tounderstand and appreciate his son's views and methods of proceeding, andwould prevent a successful issue by his impatience or interference. SoAmos resolved that he would take the responsibility and mode of actionon himself. Should he fail, his father would not have to suffer thepain of disappointment from that failure; should he succeed, he wouldhave the happiness of bringing about a loving meeting again betweenthose parents so dear to him, which would be to his father all the moredelightful from its taking him by surprise. Secrecy, then, was anessential. No one must betray his purpose to his father. Therefore, when the family had all settled down peacefully, with the young widowsweetly and lovingly filling her place as a daughter and mother, Amos, one evening in the early part of the summer which followed his brother-in-law's death, betook himself to the butler's pantry. 

"Harry, " he said, having seated himself on the closed lid of the platechest, "I want just a word with you on a subject of great importance. "

"As many words as you like, my dear young master, " said the old man;"it's always a privilege whenever I gets a visit from you, or dear MissJulia as was, bless her. What a pity she ever changed Miss into Mrs;but perhaps some good man 'll get her to change it into a better Mrssome day, and wipe the taste of that horrid cruel man's name out of allour mouths. "

"I don't know, Harry; things are better as they are at present. My dearsister's trial has been blessed to her, I can see; she is being broughtout by it decidedly on to the Lord's side. "

"You're right, Master Amos, you're right; and I'm nothing but a stupidstumbling old donkey. --Now, please, sir, what's this here importantsubject you wants to talk to me about?"

"Just this, Harry. You know that I want to get back my dear motheragain among us, and I believe it can be done; but it will want a deal ofwisdom and what people call `tact' to bring it about. Now, I'm notgoing to speak to my father on the subject, because I think his feelingswould so stir and excite him if I did, he would be so eager andanxious--it's part of his nature, you know, and he cannot help it--thathe might spoil all. "

"Just so, Master Amos; he'd just be going slap-bang about it, I daresay, and he'd drive the poor lady clean out of as many of her seven senses asshe'd got still left, poor thing. "

"Something of that kind, " said Amos, smiling. "Well, you see, Harry, ifI am to undertake the matter I must do it my own way; and it willrequire a great deal of care, and not a word must come out about it. "

"Ah, I see, Master Amos, " said the old man, "you want me to be `mum. 'Now, you look here, sir--try now if you can get a word out of me. " Sosaying, Harry closed his lips tight together, stuck his hands in histrousers' pockets, and walked about the pantry with his head in the air. 

"I am quite satisfied, " said Amos, laughing. 

"You may well be so, Master Amos, " said the other. "_Me_ speak aboutsuch a thing to them maids in the kitchen, or the coachman, or stable-boy, or any one else in the universal world! Let the whole on 'em puttogether try it on, that's all. "

"Thank you, Harry, " said Amos; "no one as yet knows about it but my auntand yourself. But I shall have to take my brother and sister into myconfidence, as I shall want their help in carrying out my plan. "

"All right, sir, all right; and, if any one mentions the poor ladybefore me, you may depend upon it I shall look like a deaf and dumbstatty cut out of stone. "

Amos then sought his aunt, and, having given her briefly his own views, asked his brother and sister to join him in Miss Huntingdon's room. Heunfolded to them his purpose, and then proceeded as follows: "What Ipropose to do is this: I want to spare our dear father all pain andtrouble in the matter, and, if I am permitted to carry out my plan withsuccess, to give him a gentle and happy surprise at the end. But I musthave the help of my dear brother and sister. The place where our dearmother now lives in retirement is a few miles inland from the sea-coast. At the sea-side nearest to her residence I intend taking a house for atime. When I have secured this, I shall invite you, dear Julia andWalter, to be my guests there for a season. I shall easily, I have nodoubt, persuade my father to spare you, on the ground that the littlechange to the sea-air will do us all good, which will be perfectly true, and that this short holiday has been a pet scheme of my own, which willbe equally true. My father will be much occupied about electioneeringbusiness the next two or three months, and as this will take him a gooddeal from home, he will not miss us so much as he might otherwise havedone; and Aunt Kate, who knows of my plans and approves of them, willkindly spare us for a while, and will look after the children, who willfollow us in a few days, and may be of use in carrying out my object. "

"Capital, " said Walter; "but you will want a mint of money to do allthis. "

"Never mind that, " replied his brother; "I have considered it all, andyou may safely leave the ways and means to me. "

"And I am sure, dear Amos, " said his sister, "we shall be only toothankful to be helpful in any way in bringing back our dear motheramongst us. "

In about three weeks' time from this conversation, during which Amos hadbeen making his arrangements, he told his father of his sea-side scheme, and received his hearty approval. "It is very good of you, my dearboy, " he said, "to provide such a nice change for your sister andWalter. Perhaps your aunt and I may run over and see you, if thiselection business will allow me any spare time. "

Mr Huntingdon was well aware that the sea-side retreat which Amos hadselected was near the place where his poor wife was in her retirement, but this was not at all displeasing to him; for though he had neverhimself mentioned that place of retirement by name to any of his familyexcept his sister, he thought it not improbable that his children wouldhave become by this time acquainted with it, and the thought that theymight go over and see their afflicted mother once or more was a comfortto him. Not that he entertained any real hope of his wife's return tosuch a state of mind as would allow of her coming home again. No suchprospect had yet been held out to him, and, indeed, while his daughterwas still shut out from his house, he had felt that, had there beensufficient improvement in his wife's state to admit of her return, thecontinued absence of her daughter, and the very mention of thatdaughter's name being forbidden in the family, would have been likely tothrow her mind off its balance again. So he had learned to acquiesce inher permanent absence as a thing inevitable, and to drown, as far aspossible, all thoughts about that absence in a multiplicity of business. But now that Amos and his brother and sister were going to spend sometime in their poor mother's neighbourhood, there arose in MrHuntingdon's mind a sort of vague idea that perhaps good to her mightcome of it. But the bustling election business so absorbed him atpresent that he never thought of bringing that idea into a definiteshape. 

It was now, as has been said, early summer. The little family partywere sitting at breakfast the day before the intended trip to the sea, when Walter remarked to his brother, "What do you say, Amos, to ourtaking our ponies to the sea with us? It would do them good, and itwould be capital fun to have some good gallops along the sands. "

Amos turned red, and did not answer. Walter repeated his question. Hisbrother then replied, but with evident reluctance, "The fact is, I havesold Prince. "

"Sold Prince!" exclaimed his brother and sister. 

"My dear Amos, " said his father, "what can have induced you to sellPrince? Surely you are imposing too great a burden on yourself. Iremember now that I have not seen you riding lately. I am very sorrythat you should have thought of such a thing. Why didn't you come tome?"

"My dear father, " said Amos earnestly, and with a bright smile, "youhave quite enough to do with your time and money just now, so I have nottroubled you about the matter. I have a little scheme of my own whichis a bit of a secret, and it needs a little self-denial to carry it out. I want the money more than I want Prince just now. I have found acapital master for him, who will treat him kindly; and by-and-by I shallbe able to get him back again, perhaps. At any rate, will you becontent to trust me in the matter, dear father?"

"Trust you, my dear boy!" exclaimed the squire; "indeed I ought, andwill, for you thoroughly deserve my trust; only it grieves me to thinkthat you should have parted with your favourite pony. "

"Oh, never mind that, father, " replied Amos cheerily, "it will be allright. Thank you so much for your kind confidence; what I have donewill do me no harm. "

The conversation then passed on to other subjects, but Walter wasclearly a little uneasy in his mind. "Amos, " he cried, when his fatherhad left the breakfast-table for a few minutes to speak to a tenant whowanted an early word with him, "are you going into business soon?"

"Business, Walter! Not that I know of. What sort of business do youmean?"

"Oh, into the butter, cheese, and bacon line. "

"I don't understand you. "

"Don't you? Well, it seems to me that sundry pounds of butter whichhave not spread themselves lately on your bread or toast, as they oughtto have done, are intended to turn up somewhere one of these days. "

The effect of this little speech on Amos was manifestly verydisconcerting; he turned red, looked confused, then with knitted browsgazed at the window. Walter, sorry to have given him pain, was justabout to make some further remark, when his eyes fell on the hands ofMiss Huntingdon, which were crossed on the table. Nodding his headprofoundly towards his aunt, he dashed off at once into another subject, and his brother soon recovered his equanimity. 

That afternoon, Walter, with his sister leaning on his arm, came andseated himself by his aunt, who had taken her needlework to the summer-house. Amos did not join them, being busily engaged in preparations forthe morrow's journey. "And now, auntie, " said Walter, "here are twovery docile and attentive scholars come for a promised lesson on moralcourage. "

"Oh, but I have not promised them a lesson, " said Miss Huntingdon, laughing. 

"No, auntie, perhaps not; but your hands have, --these hands, which werecrossed at breakfast, they have promised the lesson. "

"Well, dear boy, that is true in a measure, but I hardly know how tobegin. I have nothing to rebuke or find fault with in you, unless itwas just a little want of consideration in your dealing with Amos; but Iam sure you meant no unkindness. "

"Certainly not, auntie, not a bit of it. But now I don't quiteunderstand about Amos and his leaving off taking butter. It hassomething to do with that selling of his pony, I'm sure. Perhaps youcan explain it, and give us a lesson of moral courage from it, illustrated by historical examples. "

"I will try, dear boy. The fact is--and I am under no promise ofsecrecy in the matter; for while Amos is not one to sound a trumpetbefore him to proclaim his good deeds, he has no wish to hide them, asthough he were half-ashamed of them--the fact is that Amos wishes tosave every penny just now, in order to be perfectly free to carry outanything he may see it right to undertake in this scheme of his forbringing back your dear mother once more amongst us. Every farthingspent on himself he grudges, and he would not for the world draw on yourfather; so he has not only sold his pony, but has also given up takingbutter at meals, having made me promise, as I am housekeeper and holdthe purse, to give him in money the worth of the butter he would eat, that he may put it to this special fund for his cherished scheme. And Ihave gladly consented to his wish. It is but a small matter, and heknows it, but it is through small things that great good is broughtabout. As Martin Tupper says, `Trifles light as air are levers in thebuilding up of character. ' This self-denial on the part of dear Amosbrings out and heightens the nobility of his character; and when theoccasion for such self-denial shall have passed away, it will leave himfar advanced on the upward and heavenward road. "

"He's a brick, every inch of him, " said Walter, in a voice half-chokedwith tears; "and much more than a brick too--he's a great square blockof marble, or Scotch granite, as fine a one as ever Freemason tappedwith a trowel--there. And now, auntie, for the historical examples. "

"My first, " said Miss Huntingdon, "is that of a very remarkable man--John Wesley, the father of the Methodists. An order having been made bythe House of Lords in his day for the commissioners of excise to writeto all persons whom they might have reason to suspect of having platewithout having paid the duty on it, the accountant-general for householdplate sent to Mr Wesley a copy of the order, with a letter stating thathitherto he had neglected to make entry of his plate, and demanding thathe should do it immediately. Mr Wesley replied:--`Sir, I have twosilver tea-spoons at London, and two at Bristol. This is all the plateI have at present; and I shall not buy any more while so many around mewant bread. --Your obedient servant, John Wesley. '

"My next example is that of an equally remarkable man, Oberlin, theFrench pastor of Ban-de-la-Roche, a wild mountainous district betweenAlsace and Lorraine, where, single-handed, and in the midst ofextraordinary difficulties and privations, he was privileged to workwonders amongst a most ignorant and poverty-stricken people. Theknowledge of several pious and excellent institutions had reached thesecluded valley where Oberlin was stationed before it was received bythe rest of France. No sooner had he learned that there were Christianswho left their homes to convey to the benighted heathen the promises ofthe gospel, than he parted with all his plate, with the exception of onesilver spoon, and contributed the proceeds of the sale to mission work, expressing at the same time his regret that he was unable to send more. That one silver spoon he afterwards bequeathed as a legacy to the ChurchMissionary Society. 

"I have yet another example of the same kind to bring forward. It isthat of a most earnest and devoted American missionary, Reverend GeorgeBowen of Bombay. This good man was once an infidel. His father was arich man; but when he himself was converted, he gave up friends, country, and fortune, and consecrated himself and his whole life to theservice of Christ among the heathen. For many years he lived in amiserable hut in the native bazaar, among its sadly degraded population. Yet he was a man of deep learning and refined manners, who hadtravelled much, and knew some dozen languages. After spending about ayear in India, he was led to believe that his influence would be greaterif he were not in the receipt of a salary from a missionary society; sofor thirty years past he has received none. For some years he earnedhis livelihood by giving an hour daily to private tuition; for a stilllonger time he has trusted to the Lord to supply his need without suchoccupation, and has always had enough and to spare. 

"Now I have not mentioned these cases because I think we are all boundto do as these good men have done. When God calls to such specialsacrifice, he gives special faith and grace for it; but he does not callall Christians to the same. My reason for selecting these instances hasbeen that I might put them before you as beautiful examples of that kindof moral courage which is exhibited in acts of exalted self-denial. Andsurely we may learn from them this lesson, to be more willing than mostprofessing Christians are to deny self, that we may do good to others, or carry out some great and self-sacrificing purpose. And another thingis to be noticed in such examples as these, that it requires more moralcourage to go counter to our own tastes, likings, and habits incomparative trifles, and to persevere in this course, than to make somegreat sacrifice on the impulse of the moment. "

"Thank you, dear auntie, " said Walter. "Yes, you have hit the rightnail on the head; for our dear hero Amos has been showing just suchsteady, persevering moral courage. I see it all. Well, I hope I shallbe the better for what you have told us. "

At dinner-time Walter was nowhere to be found; all that was known wasthat he had gone off on his pony, and had left a message behind him thathe had a little bit of business in hand, and that they must not waitdinner for him if he should happen to be late. The other members of thefamily were not particularly surprised at his absence, knowing that hewould be leaving home for the sea-side next day, and that he might havesome little matter to settle with some friend in the neighbourhood. Butthey became a little anxious when old Harry remarked, in reply to aquestion from his master, that he had seen Master Walter ride off twohours ago with his rifle and fishing-rod in front of him, and that itseemed to him a little late for catching a big fish and then blazingaway at him. By nine o'clock, however, Walter had returned, his ponyevidently having had a sharp gallop home. 

"Much sport, Master Walter?" asked the butler, who was standing in thestable-yard when he rode up. 

"Oh, pretty good, " was the reply; "just a whale or two, and some half-dozen sharks. "

"They must have been tremendous big 'uns, I should say, " remarked theold man, "for they seem to have swallowed your rifle and your rod. "

"Ah, they just were, " replied Walter; and then he made his way rapidlyinto the house. 

That same night, as Amos was preparing for bed, Walter looked in, andwalking up to his brother, said, "Here, Amos, take this; it's my littlecontribution towards the general expenses, "--saying which, he put tensovereigns into his brother's hand. 

"Walter, Walter! what does this mean?" cried Amos, touched and greatlyagitated. 

"It's all straightforward and above board, " replied the other; "it meanssimply that I've been and sold my favourite rifle and fishing-rod, andone or two other trifles, and that's the money I got for them. Nay, don't look so astonished. What! you didn't think to have a monopoly ofthe self-denial, did you? You see I don't quite mean to let you. "

Amos Huntingdon--by Reverend T. P. Wilson

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. 

"BY THE SAD SEA-WAVES. "

Next morning the brothers and their sister set off in high spirits fortheir temporary home at the sea-side. As Mr Huntingdon parted withJulia his voice trembled and his eyes swam with tears. She had got sucha strong hold on his heart now that he felt it hard to part with her, even for a time. "She is so like what her mother was at her age, " hesaid mournfully to his sister, as they turned back into the house, whenthe carriage had fairly carried the young people away. Old Harry wasquite as much affected as his master, though he showed it in a differentway. The sight of "Miss Julia as was" getting into the carriage to gooff again was almost more than he could bear. She saw it, and kissedher hand to him. At this he gave a sort of jump, and then jerked hiselbow against his side with all his might, a proceeding intended tosuppress the outward exhibition of his emotion. Then, when his masterand Miss Huntingdon had returned to the breakfast-room, he stood gazingat a full-length portrait of Mrs Huntingdon, taken in her younger days, which hung in the hall, and bore a very striking resemblance to JuliaVivian as she now looked. Having feasted his eyes with the portrait fora minute or so, Harry uttered out loud one prolonged "Well;" and thembetaking himself to his pantry, sat down after he had slammed to thedoor, and put his elbows on his knees and his face between his hands. And there he sat, his breast heaving, and his throat gurgling, till atlast the simmering of his feelings fairly boiled over in a hearty floodof tears. "What an old fool I am!" he exclaimed at last. "It's all thebetter for her; and why, then, should I take on in this way? But, eh!she getting so like an angel--not as I ever seed one, only in a picture-book, and that had got wings, and she ain't got none. But she's gettingthe right look now; she's got into the narrow way, and so has MasterWalter too, only there's a bit of a swagger at present about hispilgrimage, but it'll all get right. They've got Master Amos with 'em, bless his heart, and it ain't much of the devil's head or tail as'llshow itself so long as he's got the management of things. And they'llall be back again by-and-by, and the dear old missus too, I'm sure ofit; so it'll all be well. " Comforting himself with this thought, theold man wiped his eyes with his ample spotted pocket-handkerchief, andproceeded with his work, which he enlivened with a half--out--loudaccompaniment of texts, scraps of hymns, and fragments of wise andproverbial sayings. 

In the meantime the carriage was conveying the happy trio of travellersto the station, which being safely reached, they took train, and in theafternoon arrived at their destination. Amos had secured a nice littleroomy cottage close to the seashore, which was in the hands of a middle-aged motherly woman, who, with her only daughter, a girl some fifteenyears of age, waited on her guests. Having deposited their luggage, andordered a substantial tea, the little party strolled down on to thesands. 

It was a lovely summer day, and the sun was now hastening to the west. The tide was still running down, though it had come nearly to the turn, and its gentle rush, as it broke into a thousand sparkles of foam ateach returning wave, made music in their ears. Far away to the lefttall cliffs rose up, their majestic fronts scarred with the batteringsof unnumbered storms. On either hand the shore swept round, completingthe arc of one wide-extended bay, cleft in many places by paths whichled up, now through lanes overhung by rocks of various coloured sand, and now along downs of softest turf, to the little town, or, furtheroff, to solitary dwellings or clustering hamlets. Pebbles of dazzlingwhiteness lined the upper part of the slope down to the beach; and thesewere succeeded by a broad and even flooring of tough sand, along whichvisitors, old and young, found safe and ample space for exercise. Therewas no grand esplanade or terrace with its throng of health andpleasure-seekers. It was emphatically a quiet place, with its few neatlodging-houses and humble shops, one solitary bathing-machine, and acouple of pleasure boats now hauled up high and dry. To those who mightseek excitement at the sea, this little retreat would have provedinsufferably dull; but to those who brought their resources with them inheart, mind, and purpose, there was all that could be needed to cheer, elevate, and delight, --the grand old ocean, outspread in its vastdignity of space; the invigorating breezes; the passing ships; theglories of the most magnificent of nature's painters, even the sunhimself, who spread his tints of gold, crimson, and purple in broad, dazzling bands from the extreme verge where sea and sky met up to thecentre of the blue vault overhead, though here in hues paler, yet asintensely beautiful. And all around now breathed peace. No storm wasnow ploughing up the water into mountains of angry foam; but a quietripple and a gentle splash at regular intervals soothed the spirit bythe harmony of their ceaseless fall. 

The three travellers felt the tranquillising influence of the scene. ToAmos it was one of unmitigated pleasure. The others, no doubt, wouldnaturally have preferred a livelier spot, but now the consciousness thatthey were there to aid in bringing about a great and noble object madethem content and happy for the time. So, after a long stroll on thebeach, they returned, when the great glowing ball of the sun hadwithdrawn the extreme edge of his fiery rim below the horizon, to theircottage. 

Having finished their evening meal, a consultation was held as to thebest way of carrying out the purpose which had brought them from home. The obvious thing seemed to be that Amos should go over alone to thehouse where his mother now lived, which was distant some eight or ninemiles from their lodgings, and see what the physician in whose keepingshe was might advise or suggest. So, early the next morning, he rodeforth with a beating heart, and at the same time a happy trust, on hiserrand of love, his brother and sister having arranged to pay a visitfor the day to a fashionable watering-place about five miles distantalong the coast. 

When Amos Huntingdon had reached his mother's retreat and told hiserrand, he confided to the good physician under whose charge MrsHuntingdon was placed his great purpose, and the hope that it might nowbe accomplished, since his sister had returned to her home. The kind-hearted friend at once entered into his plans, and gave him everyencouragement to hope that he would meet with good success. But careand judgment and tact must be used, lest, in endeavouring to bring backthe mind to its old balance, anything should be done which might ratherthrow it further out. Nothing sudden or exciting must be attempted; forthe delicate structure, which care and sorrow had disarranged, must bebrought into a right adjustment by gentle and cautious treatment. Thejarring chords could not be made to vibrate in tune by sweeping themwith a rough and unsympathising stroke; all could be reduced to harmonyonly by some loving and judicious action which would draw up or slackenthe discordant strings with a force which would be felt only in itsresults. It was therefore arranged that on the morrow the physicianshould bring his patient to the sea-side at noon, and that, while he andshe were seated in view of the waves, and were listening to theirsoothing plashing, Amos and his brother and sister should pass near, andbe guided in what they should do as circumstances might suggest. "Yourmother, " said the physician, "simply wants her mind clearing; all ismore or less confused at present. She grasps nothing distinctly; andyet she is often very near a clear perception. But it is with her mindas with a telescope: it is near the right focus for seeing thingsclearly, but simply it wants the adjustment which would bring it to thepoint of unclouded vision, and then, when that adjustment has beenreached, it wants to be kept fixed at the right focus. I cannot buthope that we may be able to come near to that adjustment to-morrow. "

Amos returned to his cottage much comforted. His brother and sister hadnot yet come back from their visit to the neighbouring watering-place;but at last they appeared, but not in the best of spirits. Somethinghad gone wrong with them, but Amos was too anxious to talk over themorrow's effort to ask them many questions about their excursion. 

And now the critical day arrived. The sun rose gloriously, lighting upthe heavens as he emerged from his eastern bed with a fan-shapedoutpouring of his rays which streamed up over one hemisphere of theheavens, painting the edges of myriads of small fleecy clouds with atransient crimson splendour. The sea was almost glass-like in itscalmness, only heaving up and down sluggishly, as though reluctant to bemoved in its mighty depths. But, further out, a gentle breeze wasfilling the snowy sail of some graceful cutter as it stole across thebay, or steadily swelled out the canvas of some stately ship as she spedon with all sail crowded on her towards the desired harbour. 

Just a few minutes before noon, Amos, with beating heart, saw his friendthe physician conducting two ladies to a sunny bench on the edge of theshingles, facing the open sea. "Let us go, " he said to his brother andsister, "and walk near them, but take no notice at first. " So they allrepaired to the beach, and with deeply anxious hearts drew near thelittle group. Which of the two ladies was their mother? One of themwould probably be the physician's wife. They neared the sitters, andpassed on in front of them slowly, arm in arm. Who would have thoughtthat mother and children, who had not met for years, were now so closeto one another, and yet must for a while remain severed still? As thethree on foot were passing the bench, Amos just bowed his head to thephysician, and then looked at his two lady companions; and so did hisbrother and sister. There could not be a moment's doubt--the childrenknew their mother at once. The dear familiar face was there, and notmaterially changed. And did the mother know her children? Somethingtold her that they were beings in whom she had an interest; she saw inthem something familiar. Yet she had not at all as yet grasped theirrelation to her with a realising consciousness. 

"Pass on, " said the physician softly; and they passed on. A look ofbewilderment and pain came over the face of the afflicted lady as thethree walked forward. She followed them eagerly with her eyes. Theyturned towards her again, walking slowly back, and her face at oncelighted up with a smile. "Sit down near us, " whispered the physician toAmos, as he came up close to him, and all three sat on the sloping banknot many feet away from the bench. Oh, how the heart of Amos ached withyearning to throw his arms round his mother's neck; but he knew that itmust not be yet. Julia and Walter also found it hard to restrain theirimpetuosity. 

"Who are they?" at last said Mrs Huntingdon to the doctor. These werethe first words that for seven years had fallen from that mother's lipson the ears of her children. How full of music were they to those whohad so long mourned her loss!

"They are visitors come here for change of air and to enjoy the sea, "was the reply. 

She looked puzzled. "I think I have seen them before, " she said, andput her hand to her forehead. 

"Shall they sing something?" asked the physician. 

"Oh yes! it will be so sweet; it will remind me of old times, " she said. 

Then Walter and his sister, at a nod from the doctor, began the touchingduet, "What are the wild waves saying?"

Their mother listened with delight. Then she said, "That used to be oneof my songs; I used to sing it with--with--ah, yes, with my husbandWalter. Pray sing something else. "

Then the three united in singing "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds. "

As verse after verse was given by the three voices melodiously blending, a new light seemed to dawn into the lady's eyes. "Ah!" she cried, "Iused to sing that hymn with my dear children. Let me see. Yes, withJulia, and Walter, and Amos. --These are my dear children, are they not?"

"Yes, yes, dear mother, " cried Julia, unable to control herself. 

"Who called me mother?" cried Mrs Huntingdon excitedly, and was aboutto rise, but the physician gently held her back, and motioned to herchildren to restrain themselves. 

All was silent for a while, and then the medical man began to talk in anordinary way with the young people on indifferent subjects, but all thewhile marking the effect of their voices on their mother. She wasmanifestly coming to feel that those voices were very familiar to her, and to have her heart and thoughts drawn out towards the speakers. "Wewill move on now, " said the physician after a few minutes had been spentin general conversation. Then, giving his arm to his patient, he turnedto her children and said, "Shall we meet here again the day after to-morrow at the same hour?" Amos bowed his assent, and, without anyspecial word of farewell, they parted. 

On the appointed morning the same party met on the beach. The gooddoctor at once began, "I have brought your mother to see you to-day, myyoung friends. She was a little confused when you last met, not havingbeen quite well; but I believe you will find her comfortable now. "

"Yes, " said Mrs Huntingdon, "it is all right now. Yes, I see you aremy dear children, Julia, and Amos, and Walter; but what a long time itseems since I last saw you! Come to me, my children. "

They gathered round her, eager to show their love, and yet fearing to betoo demonstrative. 

"Ah, well, " she continued, "Dr Atkin has told me all about it. He saysthat I have not been well--that my mind has been confused, but isgetting better now. Yes, you are my Julia, and you are my Walter andAmos. How kind of you to come and see me. And--and--your father, myhusband, how is he? How it all crowds back upon me!"

"You must not excite yourself, dear mother, " said Amos. 

"No, dear boy, that's true, " she replied; "but all will be well, nodoubt. Will you sing me a hymn?" So they all drew close to her, Julialaying her head in her lap, and there feeling a mother's tears droppingfast upon her forehead, while Amos and Walter each held a hand. Thenall joined in a hymn, Mrs Huntingdon taking her part. 

As the party were breaking up, Dr Atkin took Amos aside and told himthat the lost balance was now nearly recovered, that his mother hadbecome able to think connectedly, and that the tangle in her mind had, through the judicious intercourse with her children, and theassociations that intercourse had called forth, been unravelled andsmoothed out. She might now form one of their party at the cottage, andby a careful avoidance on their part of all undue excitement, and theengaging her in cheerful and well-chosen subjects of conversation, therestored reason would become settled and strengthened, and she mightreturn in a few weeks to her old home, and be able to bear by degreesthe recurrence of old memories which old familiar scenes would call up, and the resuming of those duties and responsibilities from which herinfirmities had so long shut her out. 

Oh, with what thankfulness did Amos hear the physician's conclusion; andhow warm and loving was the welcome which greeted the poor restored oneas she entered, a few days later, the sea-side cottage, and took herplace in the comfortable armchair arranged for her in a snug corner, where she could look out upon the sea, and at the same time be close toall those dear ones who were now once more truly her own. And day byday, as the mind of that beloved mother became clearer and stronger, they were able with prudent gentleness to make her understand the stateof things at home and the sad history of her unhappy son-in-law; whileat the same time Amos never lost an opportunity of directing his dearmother to that Word of consolation, which he knew would be to her, as ithad been to himself, the only true and satisfying fountain of abidingpeace. And thus it was that she now learned to love that Bible which, in former days, had never been really her stay, for she had not thengiven her heart to Him who is the author, the centre, and the giver ofall truth, peace, and consolation. 

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. 

A SLIP ON THE ROAD. 

It will be remembered that Julia and Walter had an excursion to aneighbouring fashionable watering-place about five miles distant, andspent the day there while Amos was making his first call at his mother'sretreat, and that they returned in the evening out of spirits, somethingevidently having gone amiss with them. The incidents of that excursionwill sufficiently explain the cause of their depression. 

It can readily be understood that Walter's progress in the higher pathsof duty on which he had now sincerely entered was not at all timesequally rapid. He was always meaning well, and could "put on a spurtand row hard against the stream, " as he himself expressed it, from timeto time, but the long, steady, and regular stroke he found it very hardto keep up. Naturally full of spirits, cherished and encouraged inthoughts of his own superiority, and accustomed, as long as he couldremember, to have pretty much his own way, it was no light thing for himto put a curb on his inclinations, or to check sudden impulses when theywere in the direction of what was dashing or generous. So that, whilehis deliberate convictions were on the side of all that was right, hewas very liable to be led to swerve a little from the narrow path whenany sudden strain was put upon him by his own natural or acquiredtastes, where he could not gratify these with a safe conscience. 

With Julia the case was different. Long had she resisted the hand thatwould have led her heavenwards by trial and sorrow. High-spirited, self-willed, and self-absorbed though not selfish, she had struggledlong against those cords of love which were drawing her out of thepathway of error and death. But she had yielded at last, and, havingyielded, she struggled no longer. Her one great and abiding desire nowwas to make progress on the higher road. Not that she had lost herrelish for amusement or her interest in outward things; but her spiritwas chastened, --a new light burned within her. Not that she lovedWalter less, but she loved Amos more; her heart was now more in unisonwith his, and she could now appreciate the delicacy, and deeptenderness, and consideration of his self-sacrificing love towardsherself, which she had in time past so cruelly flung back upon him, andoccasionally almost resented. So that now she felt it to be both herduty and her privilege to mark and copy the nobility of his unpretendingbut sterling character. 

Such were brother and sister as they cantered off along the sands on themorning when Amos set off to call on and consult Dr Atkin about hismother. It was a charming summer day. The sea was sparkling in itsnumberless wavelets; a gentle breeze blew with just so much pressure inthe faces of the riders as to add vigour to their spirits as theyplunged forward against it. Sea-birds wheeled round and round beforethem, and everything spoke of brightness and enjoyment. The five miles, partly along the sands and partly along roads skirting the edge of thecliffs, and affording a magnificent extent of sea-view, were sooncompleted. Walter was full of life and fun, only regretting that hecould not work up his sister into a mood as buoyant as his own. However, he did his best, and satisfied himself that it was only naturalthat the pressure of old sorrows could not yet be wholly taken off fromJulia's heart. 

And now they were come to the outskirts of the little town. It was theheight of the season, and gaiety and frolic seemed masters of the place. Old and young were to be met with at every turn, and, with theexception of the manifest invalids, all looked radiant with smiles, asthough determined--and who could blame them?--to extract as muchpleasure out of their little period of holiday as the place and itsoccupations could afford them. It so happened that the watering-placewas this day flooded with one or two large arrivals of excursionists. These had evidently come down with the intention of making the very mostof their time, and doing the whole thing thoroughly. Walter and hissister were highly entertained by watching some of these excursionists. Here, for instance, was the family of a worthy mechanic who were intenton getting the utmost possible out of the occasion that time and meanswould allow. Father, mother, children old and young, including a baby, with the wife's old father and mother, made up the party. Hasteningfrom the station to the beach, the whole family sat down together on thesands for some ten minutes or so, inhaling, with widely opened mouths, copious draughts of sea-air. Then the younger ones mounted donkeys, andthe father and mother each a pony, while the old folks looked on. Having raced about hither and thither on the jaded animals in abruptjerks of speed prompted by the resounding blows of the owners of theunfortunate brutes, all betook themselves to a sailing-boat; and landedagain after half-an-hour's sail, mostly pale, and with dismay in theirlooks, which manifestly proclaimed that "a life on the ocean wave" wascertainly not a life to their taste. Then the old grandfather called tothe driver of an open carriage, and took an airing in it with his wife, both sitting close behind the coachman with their backs to the horses, and leaving the best seat vacant, utterly unconscious that they wereoccupying the less desirable position, and smiling all the while blandlyon the general public, pleased to have, for once in a way, a littletaste of the pleasures of a higher grade of society than their own. Theride over, the entire party, baby and all, dived into some obscureregion, where an unlimited amount of hot water and stale shrimps couldbe had for a very trifling charge. 

While Walter and his sister were amusing themselves by watching theexcursionists, they became aware of being the object of notice to twoyoung men who were walking slowly along the esplanade near them. Butthey were so absorbed with what for the time had got their attention, that they failed to give any special heed to these strangers. Havingput up their horses, they made for the sea, and mingled with thenumerous comers and goers, keeping a special eye, from time to time, onthe mechanic's family and their doings. They were gazing down from theesplanade upon the busy crowds rushing backwards and forwards on thesands below them, when the two young men who had before noticed thempassed slowly by them, raising their hats. The two were Saunders andGregson. Now, it is true that Walter had, as he called it, dissolvedpartnership with these his old companions, and had not met them sincethe day of the sad disaster in the park; but, nevertheless, there stilllingered in his heart a measure of liking for them which he could notaltogether get rid of, and a certain amount of regret that allintercourse with them had been broken off. So he looked roundhesitatingly as he marked their salutation, and they noticed it. Againthey neared one another, and this time the young men smiled, and Walterreturned the smile. Then the two stopped, and Gregson said, "Come, oldfellow, shake hands; you've treated us rather shabbily to cut us as youhave done, but we cannot bear the thought of our old friendship being soeasily broken up. We've had many a jolly day together, and why shouldit not be so again?" He held out his hand, and Walter could not, or didnot, resist the impulse to grasp it warmly. Then Saunders must have asimilar grip, and Walter could not bring himself to refuse it. Afterthis Julia was introduced, and the four went about amicably together, the two young men warming up, as they saw Walter's resolution meltingaway, and rattling on with all sorts of light and frivolous talk, whichgrated sadly on the ear and heart of Julia Vivian. 

It was now one o'clock, when Gregson exclaimed, "You must all come tothe Ship, and dine at my expense. Nay, my dear old fellow"--addressingWalter--"I'll not hear of a refusal. You know how I let you in for thatsecond sovereign at the match, when Jim Jarrocks won so cleverly. Ididn't mean it, of course, but you must allow me the pleasure of makingsome little amends by having you and your sister as my guests to-day. "Julia tried, by a gentle pressure of her brother's arm, to dissuade himfrom accepting the invitation, but without avail. Walter felt that hewas now "in for it, " and must go through with it. So the fourcompanions walked to the Ship Hotel, and partook of an excellent dinnerordered by Gregson, in a private room which commanded a full view of thesea and the crowds of pleasure-seekers who were swarming along thesands. Both the young host and his friend Saunders drank wine and beerfreely. Walter, who had never been given to excess, was more cautious;but partly from the excitement of the occasion, and partly, it may be, to drown some uncomfortable whisperings of conscience, he took more ofthese stimulating drinks than he would have thought of doing underordinary circumstances, and the result was that he was prepared, whenthe meal was over, to take his part in any scheme of fun or frolic thathis new companions might propose. Julia saw this with deep shame andregret, but she also saw that now was not the time to remonstrate. Shedid speak to her brother, as they were leaving the hotel, aboutreturning at once, as she did not wish to be late; but Walter replied inan impatient tone that there was plenty of time, and they might as wellhave a little bit of fun first. So, with trembling heart she took hisarm as they emerged on to the esplanade, resolved that, at any rate, come what might, she would keep close to her brother, and be as much acheck upon him as possible. 

The four now made their way to the sands. As they did so, they observeda considerable number of the visitors making their way in a body towardsa spot where a crowd had evidently assembled. "What's up now?" criedGregson. "Let us go and see. " They all joined the stream of walkers, and at last reached a spot where a large company of listeners weregathered round a group of men, some of whom were distributing tractsamong the people, while one with a grave but pleasing countenance, standing on a stout oak stool which was firmly planted among theshingles, was giving out a verse of a popular hymn preparatory toaddressing the spectators. 

"Ain't this capital?" said Gregson to Walter and Saunders in a loudwhisper. "Won't we just have a rare bit of fun!" He then spoke in alow voice in Saunders's ear, and the young man stole round to theopposite side of the crowd. When the hymn had been sung, and thespeaker was in the very act of commencing his discourse, a loud mew fromGregson, who was affecting to look very solemn, made the good man pause. He made a second attempt; but now a noise as of two cats fightingviolently came from the opposite side of the concourse. The poorpreacher looked sadly disconcerted; but when the pretended mewing andwrangling were continued, the sense of the ludicrous seemed to prevailin the crowd over everything else, and there was one general outburst oflaughter, in which no one joined more heartily than Walter. The crowdbegan to surge backwards and forwards, and many to move off. But thepreacher still maintained his stand. "Come here! come here!" criedGregson in an undertone to Walter. Julia felt her brother suddenlydisengage his arm from hers, and then he was lost in the crowd. A fewminutes later, and there was a movement among the audience--if it couldnow be called an audience--in the rear of the speaker; and during theconfusion, Julia, who was gazing intently on the spot where the preacherstood, saw two faces crouching down for a moment. One was Gregson's, the other was Walter's; and then two hands clutched the legs of thestool, and the preacher was pitched head-foremost into the sand. A roarof mirth followed this performance, but it soon gave place to cries of"Shame! shame!" Then there was a lull, and then a profound silence, asthe good man who had been so cruelly used planted his feet firmly amongthe shingles, and said in a clear and unfaltering voice, "My friends, may the Lord forgive these misguided young men for their uncalled-forand unprovoked interference and ridicule! But their malice shall notstop the good work. Here I stand to preach God's truth; and here I meanto stand, if the Lord will, every day during the season, opposition orno opposition, persecution or no persecution. Let us sing another verseof a hymn. " Amidst the profoundest stillness, and evidently with thehearty sympathy of the bulk of his hearers, the good evangelistproceeded with his holy work. 

"Come along! come along!" whispered Gregson, creeping round to Walter, who had now regained his sister, and was feeling heartily ashamed ofhimself. They all hastened back to the hotel. Walter was nowthoroughly subdued, and with a very cold leave-taking of his formerfriends, he and his sister sought their horses, and made the best oftheir way to the cottage, exchanging but few words as they rode along. Such was the shameful and sorrowful ending of what had promised to be avery happy day. 

And now, when Mrs Huntingdon had been a few days established in thecottage, by her own earnest request, and with the hearty concurrence ofher children, their aunt came over to spend a little time with them. This she could the more easily do as her brother was fully occupied withhis endeavours to secure the return of the candidate whose politics heagreed with. Surely there can be few, who have a large circle ofrelations of different degrees of nearness, who have not among thesesome pre-eminently special ones who draw to themselves a more thanordinary share of affection from all their kindred--a special sister, orbrother, or cousin, who does not however, make others less loved, whilebeing the privileged object of a peculiarly tender regard. Such aspecial aunt was Miss Huntingdon to all her nephews and nieces. A visitfrom her was everywhere hailed with rejoicing. And so now every heartwas glad when she joined the little party at the sea-side cottage. ToMrs Huntingdon the coming of her sister-in-law was eminentlybeneficial; for her tender love, her wise and judicious counsels, herearnest prayers, all helped to establish the restored mother in ahealthful and happy tone of mind, and were the means of guiding her tothat perfect peace which dwells nowhere but in the hearts of those whohave sought and found in their Saviour the friend who loves above allothers. 

When Miss Huntingdon had been at the cottage two or three days, and waswalking with Amos and Walter by the ebbing waves, Julia having remainedbehind with her mother, Walter suddenly stopped, and said, "Auntie, Ihave something very sad to tell you, and I want your advice. "

Both his aunt and Amos looked at him with surprise and anxiety, and thenthe former said, "Well, dear boy, I am sorry that there should beanything troubling you; but if I can be of any use or comfort to you inthe matter. I shall be only too glad. "

"Sit down here then, Aunt Kate, if you please, on this bank; and if youare not both of you heartily ashamed of me and disgusted with me when Ihave told you all, well, you ought to be. "

When all three were seated, Walter fully related his adventure at thewatering-place, concluding with the attack upon the preacher, laying afull share of blame on himself, and ending with the words, "Now, dearauntie, what do you say to that?"

Both his hearers looked very grave, and were silent for some time. Atlast Miss Huntingdon, laying her hand lovingly on Walter's shoulder, said, "Dear boy, it is certainly a sad story, but you were led into whatyou did from want of watchfulness; and as you are now aware of yourfault, and are sorry for it, I should not, if I were you; needlesslydistress myself, but just make, if you can, some amends. "

"Ah! that's the point, " cried Walter; "you mean, of course, make someamends to the good preacher. Yes, that can be done, for he said heshould be at his post at the same hour every day during the season. Butit will require some moral courage to do it, and no little of thatvaluable article too. Now I am sure, dear auntie, you have in thatcabinet of your memory one drawer at least full of examples of moralcourage, and you can pick me out one to suit this case. "

"Yes, dear boy, " said his aunt, smiling, "I daresay I can; for eversince you first asked me to help you in the matter of moral courage byexamples drawn from real life, I have been noticing and storing up inone of these drawers you speak of whatever instances of moral couragehave come before me in my reading. "

"What, then, is it to be to-day, dear Aunt Kate? Can you find me onethat will show me how I ought to act in this sad business?"

After reflecting for a few minutes, Miss Huntingdon began: "I haverather a strange moral hero to mention now, and yet he is a most realone. His name is James Comley. He was for years a confirmed infidel--amost intelligent man, but in utter spiritual darkness. He lived atNorwich, and carried on the business of a tea-dealer. He hadindoctrinated his wife and children with his own infidel views, and hadnever lost an occasion of publicly assailing the truths of religion. But at last he was brought to see the misery of his condition. Heprayed earnestly for light, and God gave it him at last, and he became atruly changed man. And now, mark his conduct after this change hadtaken place. He at once tore down some lying placards which covered theshutters of his shop and the whole front of his house--placards whichstated that his tea business was `The Eastern Branch of the GreatEuropean Tea Company, ' which company, in fact, had no existence. Hedisposed of about seventy empty tea-chests, which had been so arrangedin his shop as to suggest the idea of an immense stock. A huge bale ofunused placards he carried into the Norwich market-place, where headdressed the crowd that awaited his arrival, and then carried thisbundle of lies to Mousehold Heath, where, after the singing of a hymn, praying, and addressing the crowd which had accompanied him, hecommitted it to the flames. He after this began publicly to preach thatgospel which for nine years in Norwich he had done his best to destroy. Here was true moral courage indeed; and perhaps his example may be ahelp to you, dear Walter, in showing you what you ought to do. "

Her nephew had listened with the deepest interest, and now remainedburied in thought. At length he said: "True, dear auntie; I see it all;my duty is plain enough. James Comley had publicly insulted God andreligion, and he made amends as far as he could do so. At any rate heshowed his sincerity by coming out boldly as an honest man, and as onewho was sorry for the past, by his publicly burning those placards andthen preaching the truth which he used to deny and revile. And I oughtto do the same. I mean that, as I did a public wrong in open daylight, and before many people, to that good man at Stringby, so my duty is togo over to Stringby and just as publicly to confess to him, and to thepeople who may be there, and in open daylight, my sorrow for what I did. That's just it, auntie, is it not?"

"It will certainly be making the best use of my example, dear boy, " shereplied, "and will be showing true moral courage; but no doubt it willinvolve much self-denial, and require much strength from the only truefountain of strength. "

"It shall be done, and to-morrow, " said Walter firmly. 

"Would it be any comfort or help to you if I were to go with you?" askedAmos. 

"The greatest comfort in the world, " cried his brother joyfully; "yes, and let Julia come too. She was grieved to see me led away as I was, and it will therefore be a happiness to me if she will come with us andhear my confession. "

And so it was arranged. 

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. 

UNEXPECTED FRUIT. 

The next day, after luncheon, the brothers, with their sister, startedfor Stringby, but not in very buoyant spirits. Walter had no thought ofdrawing back, nevertheless he felt an almost overwhelming shrinking fromthe task which he had undertaken. The loving smile, however, and gentlewords of affectionate concern with which his aunt had cheered him asthey set off were a source of much strength and comfort to him; theyhovered around his heart like the shadowing wing of an angel wheneverthe scorching heat of his furnace of trial swept by anticipation acrosshis shrinking spirit. He had thought it wiser not to confide to hismother either the cause of his shame or his intended amends. 

The weather was clear and bright as they began their ride, but a smartshower burst upon them when they had accomplished half the distance, andforced them to go out of their way to take shelter. Would the preacher, distrusting the sky, have given up his work just for this afternoon? Ifso, what pain and humiliation Walter would be spared! Oh, how he clungfor a few moments to the hope that it might be so! for then he wouldhave made the amends and the sacrifice, and shown the moral courage, _inintention_, and, at the same time, would be spared the actual heavytrial itself. But then he dashed away these thoughts from him, and withan inward prayer nerved himself for the coming effort. 

Amos, as he rode by his side, seemed to guess what was passing throughhis mind, and said, "Can I speak to the preacher for you, Walter? Itwill save you some pain, and, as I shall be speaking for another, Ishould not have the same difficulty that you might feel. " But thissuggestion at once roused Walter out of all his fears. "No, no, dearAmos, " he cried, "no; I have put my foot in it, and I must go throughwith it. Your being with me will be a great help, and it would not beright for me to accept any further assistance from you. "

Little more was said on the way. Julia scarcely opened her lips, butthere was a sweet peace on her fair face. She felt that her brotherWalter was going to do the right thing, and, though she thoroughlysympathised with him in his natural shrinking from his task, she wassatisfied that he could not now retreat if he would do what duty plainlycalled him to. So they trotted or cantered leisurely along, while thedashing of the waves, and their ceaseless ebb and flow, seemed to remindthem of that love which, in the midst of the ceaseless ebb and flow ofthis world's trials, and of man's personal failures and advances in thelife of holiness, ever comes, like the sea-breeze, in breathings ofspiritual health and heavenly pity to the souls that are pressing onwardand upward to the land unclouded by sin. 

At last the watering-place was gained. It seemed to Walter and hissister more thronged than ever. Several large excursion trains hadbrought their many hundreds of eager and excited holiday-keepers. Esplanade, sands, and by-streets were swarming with passers to and fro. Would they meet Gregson and Saunders there? Most earnestly did Walterand his sister, and indeed Amos also, hope that they would not. However, little time was there for scanning the faces of those they met, for now they pressed rapidly forward, Walter leading the way, as he wasanxious to plunge at once into his difficult work and get it over asspeedily as possible. "You know, " he said to Amos with a faint smile, "it's just like going to the dentist's. When you get into his room, youdon't go and ask to look at his instruments, --those horrid pinchers, andpliers, and screw-looking things, --it's quite bad enough to feel them;and the sooner the wrench comes the sooner it'll be over. So now for mywrench. " As he said this, they came within sight of the place where theunhappy disturbance occurred in which he had taken a part. A crowd hadgathered, on the outskirts of which, people were moving backwards andforwards, but there were no sounds of uproar or interruption as theyreached it. All were very attentive. The preacher--the sight of whomcaused the blood to rush into Walter's face--was the same he hadencountered before. The good man was standing on his stool giving outtwo lines of a well-known hymn. And then a noble volume of praise fromthose united voices rolled up towards heaven. 

Walter could see in a moment that the preacher's eye had rested on him, and that he remembered him. So, flinging his horse's reins to hisbrother, he slipped off his saddle and elbowed his way vigorouslythrough the crowd. "Stop, young man, " said the evangelist calmly andsolemnly, as he saw Walter pressing forward. But Walter made his wayclose up to him, and, while the other was evidently perplexed as to themeaning of his conduct, said quietly to him, "I am not come here to-dayto hinder or make game, but to ask pardon. " The other looked at him inamazement, and for a moment knew not what to say. Then, while therearose a strange buzz of surprise and excitement among the bystanders, Walter asked, "May I stand in your place for a minute, and say a fewwords to these people?" The good man was clearly taken quite aback bythis request, and looked hard at him who had made it. Was this a schemefor turning the preacher and his work into open ridicule? The othermembers of the evangelist's party seemed to think so, and advised him torefuse; that it was only a dodge on the young man's part to get up apiece of extra rich entertainment for his friends, who, no doubt, wouldnot be far off. The good man had come down from his stool while theseremarks were being addressed to him. He hesitated, but when he turnedto Walter and looked in his face his mind was made up at once; for therewas something, he said, in that face which satisfied him that good wouldcome out of his yielding to the request made, and not evil. So, whilethe spectators were looking on and listening with breathlessexpectation, he said, in a clear voice, audible to those on the utmostverge of the great assembly, --"Friends, before I address you, a youngman has asked leave to occupy my place for a short time. He shall doso, for I have confidence in him that he will not abuse the liberty Igive him. "

There was a murmur of approbation and intense interest as Walter mountedthe stool and looked upon the sea of upturned faces round him. He wasvery pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon grew calm and firm. "My friends, " he began, "I have come here to-day to do an act ofjustice. Some days ago I was a spectator in this place, as you are now. This good man, the preacher, stood then where I now stand. He had comehere to try and do you good; I came, I am sorry to say, in a differentspirit. Joining with others as wrong and foolish as myself, Iinterrupted and ill-treated this servant of the good Master, ourSaviour. I am come to-day to make what amends I can. As I thenpublicly ill-treated him, so I now equally publicly ask his pardon forwhat I did then; and I earnestly beg you all to give him a patienthearing, and to encourage him in his work of love. "

Not a word of this short address was lost by a single hearer, though thelast part was almost stifled by the speaker's emotion. As for thepreacher, he knew not how to contain himself. When Walter had sprung tothe ground amidst the profoundest silence, both his hands were graspedby the good man whose pardon he had asked, who, as he shook them warmly, could only say at the moment, "The Lord bless you! the Lord be praised!"Then, recovering himself, he sprang upon the stool, and cried out, "That's a right noble young man, dear friends! There's real couragethere, and a generous heart, and no mistake. He has asked my pardon forwhat he did, and, had I twenty hearts, he should have it from the bottomof each. I thought, when he came here a few days since and put a littlehindrance in the way, `Now, the devil's very busy; what a crafty beinghe is!' Ah, but see now. After all, he only outwits himself by his owncraftiness. The Lord brings good out of Satan's evil. Well, now, letus proceed with our proper work. " These words were followed by a heartycheer from the assenting crowd, and then all listened attentively whilethe good man gave a plain, practical, faithful, and pointed gospeladdress. 

When this was over, and the crowd was dispersing, Amos, whose heart wasall in a happy glow, drew near the preaching-place with Julia, both ofthem having now dismounted. The good evangelist's fellow-helpers weredistributing tracts among the retiring audience, while the preacherhimself was in earnest conversation with Walter. Julia held out herhand for some tracts, saying to the man who gave them, "I will do mybest to distribute them among those who will be likely to benefit bythem. Please let me have as many as you can spare. " He gladly did so. 

In a short time all had left, except the preacher and his friends, Amos, and his brother and sister. As Walter was about to go, he took out hispurse and said to the good man who had so heartily forgiven his formerunkindness, "You must allow me to offer you a contribution to your tractfund. I am sure you will understand me. I am not asking you to acceptthis as any compensation for my abominable treatment of you the otherday, but simply as a little token of my sincere desire to help on yourgood work in however small a way. "

The offering was at once and gratefully accepted. "There is no fear, "said the good man, smiling, "of my taking offence at anything which theLord sends me, or at the way in which he chooses to send it. The workis his, and the silver and the gold are his, and he supplies us with themeans in the best way, as he sees it, and therefore in the very bestway. So I thank you for your contribution, and accept it with pleasure;and I think we shall neither of us forget this day as long as we live, neither on this side of the river nor on the other. "

With a hearty farewell on both sides, Walter and his companionsremounted their horses, and rode slowly away, full of happy thoughts:Walter very happy, because he had been enabled to do what his consciencehad bidden him; Amos quite as happy, because the brother he loved sodearly had behaved so nobly; and Julia calmly happy, because she feltthat bright sunshine had poured through a dark cloud which had broodedfor a while sadly over her spirit. And there was something yet morestirring in her heart in consequence of all that she had seen andheard, --it was a rising desire to be doing some real good to others, andto be doing this at the cost of personal sacrifice and self-denial. Ah, what a new and strange desire was this in one who had, till lately, allowed the idol of self to occupy the shrine of her heart. To bethinking of others, to be steadily keeping the good of others in view, to put self-pleasing in the background, or to find it in pleasingothers, and that, too, from love to one who for her sake pleased notHimself, --this was something wondrous indeed to her, and yet how full ofreal and heavenly brightness when it had truly found an entrance intoher soul!

But how and where was she to begin? She had a little bundle of tractsin her hand; should she begin at once with these? Of all things whichshe once would have shrunk from, nothing would have then been morerepulsive than the office of a distributer of tracts. Some yearsbefore, when once asked by a pious friend of her aunt if she would likea few tracts to give away as she might have opportunity, her reply hadbeen, "She had rather not, for she believed that tracts were vulgar, canting things, commonly given by hypocrites to their neighbours whenthey wanted to deceive them under a cloak of affected godliness. " Shehad been rather proud of this reply, which certainly for the time hadthe effect of completely shutting up the good lady who had recommendedthe tracts to her notice. But now she felt very differently, and lookedat the little bundle in her hand, thinking how she might use it to thebest advantage. Not that she felt naturally drawn to the work; it wouldrequire a considerable effort on her part to bring herself to offer atract to a stranger, and a far greater effort to accompany the offerwith a word or two from herself; but she now believed that she _ought_to make the effort, and that word "ought, " the idea of "duty" which itkept before her, was beginning to exercise a constraining force hithertounknown to her. And there was a special advantage in the tract. Justthe giving of it without comment would be a good preparation for moreclose and personal work in the loving Master's service. So, graspingthe papers with a trembling hand, she began to look out for anopportunity of parting with some of them, and she had not long to wait. When the little party turned away from the spot where the preaching hadbeen held, and were thinking of returning to their cottage, as they werejust directing their horses' heads homewards, Julia uttered a sort ofsuppressed cry or exclamation, which at once drew the anxious attentionof both her brothers to her. 

"Anything amiss, dear Julia?" asked Amos and Walter together. 

"No, not exactly, " she said in a troubled voice, and with a scared look. Then, recovering herself, she pointed to a young woman dressed ratherfantastically, who had just passed them in a direction opposite to thatin which they were going. "Do you see that woman?" she asked in a lowhumbled voice; "she is one I have reason to know too well. She wasassociated in a theatre with poor Orlando. Oh, I wish I could do hersome good! Let us follow her; perhaps she would take a tract. "

Who would have thought of such a speech from Julia Vivian a few daysback? But the earnest desire to do that poor outcast creature good hadevidently got possession of her, and so the three turned their horses'heads in the direction in which the actress was walking. But the objectof their loving pursuit had now quickened her pace, and turned up a by-street before they could come up with her. Should they follow? Someimpulse urged them forward. The side street led to a square or largeopen piece of ground, in the centre of which was erected a temporarytheatre. The woman whom they were following was just about to enterthis building, but turned about and looked back before doing so. Hereyes met those of Julia, and she at once recognised her with a peculiarsmile, which sent the blood rushing back to Julia's heart, and made herfor the moment half resolve to turn and fly from the place. But sheresisted the feeling and held her ground. The next moment the woman hadentered the theatre. The little party lingered for a few moments, andthen the theatre door again opened, and several persons in various stagedresses came out and gazed on the newcomers. Then they began to wink atone another as they stared at Julia, and to break out into a broad grin. How earnestly did the object of their curiosity and merriment long torush away out of the reach of those mocking eyes and sneering lips! Yetshe did not move. A purpose was coming into her heart; she might neverhave such an opportunity again. Yet how weak she felt in herself. Butthen she lifted up her heart in prayer to the Strong One, and, turningwith blanched face, but perfect calmness, to her brothers, asked them tohelp her to dismount, and then, leaving her horse's reins in Walter'shands, advanced towards a group of some dozen persons of different ageswho had come out of the theatre to gaze and to make merry. 

"You know me, I see, " she said, in a voice sweet and sad, but clear as abell in its utterances, "and I know you. You knew my poor husband intimes gone by, but not lately. He is dead; and your time must come too. He was pointed to that Saviour who alone can make a death-bed happy, and I _hope_ he was able to see him. His last words were, `God bemerciful to me a sinner. ' You and I shall probably never meet again. Ihave gone back to my early home, and wish to forget the past, but Icould not see Jenny Farleigh go by without wishing to say a kind word toher, and this has brought me to you. I believe God has changed myheart; I have learned to know something of the love of my Saviour, and Iam happier now than I have ever been all my life. Oh, if you would onlygive up your present life and come to the same Saviour, how happy youwould be! Don't be angry with me for saying this, but just each of youtake one of these little papers from my hand as a token of good-will onmy part, and read it when you are alone. "

She paused, having uttered these words with deep feeling, but at thesame time in a steady and fearless voice. The effect on her hearers wasoverpowering. Not a scornful eye, not a sneering lip remained when shehad finished, but sobs and tears burst from those who had for long yearsknown little other than fictitious weeping. Each took the offeredtract, each returned with warmth the kind pressure of her hand as sheparted from them; and as she remounted her horse, one voice was heard tosay, "Poor thing! God bless her!" Then all shrank back into thetheatre, and the happy three turned homeward once again. And oh, withwhat deep thankfulness did all make their way along the cliffs, and thenclose to the incoming tide, whose every wave seemed to throw up for thema sparkle of joy in its glittering spray! Few words, however, werespoken. Amos could hardly realise that this moral heroine was thesister whom he had once known so weak, so self-willed, so unimpressiblefor anything that was good and holy. Walter also was utterly staggeredand humbled when he reflected on what he had just witnessed, though atthe same time he was truly happy in having been strengthened to carryout his own noble and self-denying purpose. As for poor Julia, shecould hardly believe that she herself was the person who had addressedthat group outside the theatre walls. Oh, it was so strange, soterrible, and yet so blessed! for through that newly-opened door of workfor the gracious Master bright rays from the flood of glory in which heever dwells had been pouring in upon her soul. 

The happy three reached their cottage, overflowing with love to oneanother, and all anxious that Miss Huntingdon should be a sharer intheir happiness, when she should hear what a bright and blessed day hadbeen granted them. So they sought her in the evening, when their motherhad retired to rest. Seated at her bedroom window, the four lookedforth upon the mighty deep, now rolling in its great waves nearer andnearer, and every wave flashing in the silver light of the full-orbedmoon. And surely the moonlight streaming down upon those waves, likeGod's calm peace on the billows of earthly trial, was in sweet harmonywith the feelings of that little group, as Amos and Julia poured outtheir account of Walter's noble address, and as Amos and Walter told ofthe unexpected and loving self-sacrifice exhibited in the conduct oftheir darling sister. Need it be said that in Miss Huntingdon they hadone who listened with almost painful interest and thankfulness to theadventures of that never-to-be-forgotten day? Drawing them all roundher, she poured out her heart in praise to God for what he had done inthem and by them, and in prayer that they might be enabled to perseverein the glorious course on which they had all now entered. And now, whenall were again seated--a little mound or pyramid of young hands beingheaped together over one another in Miss Huntingdon's lap--Walter'svoice was first heard. "I want an anecdote, an example of moralcourage, auntie; and it must be a female one this time, for we have amoral heroine here, there can be no doubt about that. "

"There is no doubt of it, I am sure, " replied his aunt; "and there canbe no difficulty in finding moral heroines, as well as moral heroes. Indeed, the only difficulty lies in making the most suitable selectionfrom so many. Our dear Julia has shown a moral courage such as I amcertain she could not have done had she not sought strength from theonly unfailing fountain of strength; and so I will take as my exampleone who was surrounded, as Julia was, by persons and circumstances whichmight well have daunted the stoutest heart, much more the heart of apoor and desolate young woman. And my example will be the moreappropriate because it will bring before us a scene which is closelyconnected with the seashore--such a seashore, it may be, as we are nowgazing on, with its sloping sands, and waves rushing up higher andhigher on the beach. My heroine, then--and she had a fellow-heroinewith her--was a humble Scottish girl who lived in the reign of Charlesthe Second, when the poor and pious Covenanters were bitterly andremorselessly persecuted, even to the death, because they would not doviolence to their consciences and deny the Lord who bought them. Manyof them, you know, were hunted by the king's savage soldiery among thehills and mountains, and, when overtaken, were slain in cold blood, evenwhen in the act of prayer. 

"Margaret Wilson, my heroine, was a young girl of eighteen. She wastaken prisoner by the soldiers, tried, and condemned to die, because shesteadily and courageously refused to acknowledge the supremacy of anyother than Christ in the Church. A few words might have saved her life;but she would not utter them, because they would have been words offalsehood, and, though she dared to die, she dared not tell a lie. Sothey brought her out to the seashore, such as is before us now. Thetide was rising, but had not then begun long to turn. She had a fellow-sufferer with her of her own sex--one who, like herself, preferred acruel death to denying Christ. This fellow-sufferer was an aged widowof sixty-three. The sentence pronounced against them both was that theyshould be fastened to stakes driven deeply into the sand that coveredthe beach, and left to perish in the rising tide. The stake to whichthe aged female was fastened was lower down the beach than that of theyounger woman, in order that the expiring agonies of the elder saint, who would be first destroyed, might shake the firmness of MargaretWilson. The water soon flowed up to the feet of the old woman; in awhile it mounted to her knees, then to her waist, then to her chin, thento her lips; and when she was almost stifled by the rising waves, andthe bubbling groan of her last agony was reaching her fellow-martyrfarther up the beach, one heartless ruffian stepped up to MargaretWilson, and, with a fiendish grin and mocking laugh, asked her, `Whatthink you of your friend now?' And what was the calm and noble reply?`What do I see but Christ, in one of his members, wrestling there?Think you that _we_ are the sufferers? No. It is Christ in us--he whosendeth us not on a warfare upon our own charges. ' She never flinched;she sought no mercy from man. The waves reached her too at last; theydid the terrible work which man had made them do. The heroic girlpassed from the hour of mortal struggle into the perfect peace of herSaviour's presence. "

As she finished, Julia looked with tearful eyes into her aunt's face, and said gently, "Dear auntie, Christ was her strength; and, " she addedin a whisper, "I believe he was mine. "

"Yes, yes, precious child, " said Miss Huntingdon, drawing her closely toher, "I am sure it was so; and the one great lesson we may learn fromour three heroines is this, `I can do all things through Christ whostrengtheneth me. '"

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. 

THE CROWN WON. 

All was now peace in the little cottage. Mrs Huntingdon's once cloudedmind was daily gaining in clearness and strength, not only from theloving and judicious attentions of her children, but still more from theinward peace which had now made its dwelling in her heart. Ah! surelyin nothing is that declaration of holy Scripture, that godliness has thepromise of the life that now is, as well as of that which is to come, more evidenced than in the healthful tone which God's peace in the soulimparts to a mind once disordered and diseased. Few, comparatively, areaware in how many cases that which the world so specially prizes, "asound mind in a sound body, " is enjoyed by its possessor because thatmind belongs to one whom God is keeping by his indwelling Spirit inperfect peace. It was so with Mrs Huntingdon. She had found the onlytrue rest, and so was daily making progress in strength both of body andmind. And her thorough establishment in this improvement in physicaland mental health was helped forward by the presence of hergrandchildren, whom Miss Huntingdon had brought with her to the cottage. Their coming carried her back in thought to the days when her ownchildren were as young, and bridged over the gulf of sorrow which hadcome in between; so that the painful impressions made when memoryrecalled that sorrow grew fainter and fainter in the happy light thatshone on the path of present duties, just as the waking terrors fromsome frightful and vivid dream fade away more and more, till they vanishand are forgotten in the full, broad, morning sunshine and the realitiesof work-day life. Nor were her grandchildren a source of comfort andimprovement to her alone. Their own mother had now learned to look uponthem in a very different light--no longer as clogs impeding her steps asshe pressed on in pursuit of pleasure and excitement, but as preciouscharges intrusted to her by the great Master, to be brought up for him, and in training of whom to walk on the narrow way by her side she wouldherself find the purest and highest happiness to be enjoyed on earth. So all things were now going on brightly at the cottage. Peace, harmony, and love had their abode there; and never did a happier partygo down to meet the incoming tide, and listen to its gentle music, thanmight be seen when Mrs Huntingdon, her children, grandchildren, andsister-in-law issued forth for a morning stroll along the beach, togather shells, or drink in the bracing air, as they watched some passingship, or the sea-birds as they dashed across the spray. 

But now thoughts of home, and of the restoration to that home of theirdear mother, were busy in the hearts of Amos and his brother and sister. Mrs Huntingdon herself ventured only a hint or two on the subject, forshe felt that in this matter she must leave herself in the hands of herchildren. When _they_ saw that the fitting time was come, doubtless thereturn would be brought about. On the other hand, Amos was most anxiousto spare his father any pain which he might suffer from anything like anabrupt disclosure of the intended return home of his wife. The matterwould require gentle and delicate handling, lest the happiness of thatreturn should in any degree be marred to Mr Huntingdon by his feelingthat his advice should have been asked and his wishes consulted beforeeven so happy a consummation should be brought about. So, after thesubject had been talked over with Miss Huntingdon, it was unanimouslyresolved that she should be the person to break the happy tidings of hiswife's restoration to health to her brother, and should advise with himas to the most suitable day for her going back again to the old home. To this arrangement she cheerfully consented, and in a few days returnedalone to Flixworth Manor, to the great satisfaction of Mr Huntingdon, who was getting heartily tired of his solitary life. 

And now she had to make her important disclosure, and how should shebest do this? Unknown to her, the way had already been partiallyopened; for one evening, when the squire was taking his dinner allalone, and Harry was waiting on him, he said to the old man, "Ratherdull work, Harry, without the young mistress and the children. "

"Ay, sir, to be sure, " was the butler's reply; "the house ain't like thesame. It has got quite like old times again. "

"Yes, " said his master, sadly and thoughtfully; "something like oldtimes. Well, we shall have Mrs Vivian back again shortly. "

"And the old missus too, maybe, afore so very long, " said the otherquickly. 

"What _do_ you mean?" asked his master in a disturbed voice. 

"Oh, beg pardon, sir, " cried Harry; "I hardly knew what I was saying--itcame natural like; but stranger things has happened afore now. You mustexcuse me, master; I meant no harm. "

The dinner over, the squire leaned back in his armchair, and began toturn over many thoughts in his mind. Harry's words kept recurring tohim, "And the old missus too. " Well, why not? Hitherto he had neverthought the matter over at all. He knew that his wife had continuedmuch the same, neither better nor worse. He knew also that to havebrought her back while her daughter was shut out of the house would haveonly been the means of aggravating her complaint; and it had not yetseriously occurred to him that Julia's return might remove a difficultyand be a step towards restoring her mother to her old place in her home. But Harry's words now disturbed him and made him restless, --"And theold missus too. " Could it indeed be brought to pass? Might not thesight of her daughter in the old home, occupying the place she used tohold, and of the other children living with her in harmony and love, actso beneficially on her as to restore her, with judicious and tendertreatment, to reason, happy intelligence, and home once more? As headmitted these thoughts into his heart, his bosom heaved, the tears fellfast from his eyes, he pressed his hand on his forehead, and, lookingup, murmured a prayer for guidance. Harassed and worn by electioneeringbusiness, and sickened with the din and unnatural excitement connectedwith it, how he yearned for the quiet peace and affectionate realitiesof his home society; and with that yearning came now a special longingto see once more, in her accustomed chair, her who had dwelt so long inbanishment from him. And yet he scarcely knew how to take the firststep in the bringing about of that which he so earnestly desired. "Imust leave it till Kate comes home, " he said to himself with a sigh;"she will be sure to suggest the right thing, and to go the right way towork in the matter. " How great, then, were the relief and happiness ofMiss Huntingdon when, on the evening of the day of her return home, herbrother himself introduced the subject by saying, "Dear Kate, I havebeen thinking a good deal of late whether it would not be possible toget my dear Mary back to her old home again. You know one greathindrance has now been removed. She will find our dear Julia once moreready to welcome her, and that, I daresay, if the meeting were wellmanaged, might go a great way towards her cure. "

With what joy, then, did Miss Huntingdon gradually unfold to her brotherthe fact that the cure had already been accomplished, and that nothingnow remained but for him to fix the day for receiving back to his heartand home her who had been so long separated from him. Most gladly didhe acquiesce in the plans proposed by his sister as to the day andmanner of his wife's return, promising that he would duly restrainhimself at the first meeting, and that he would endeavour to erase, byhis future consideration and attention to her every wish, any painfulscar that might remain from harshness or unkindness in times past. MissHuntingdon was most deeply thankful that her path had been thus smoothedby the wise and tender hand that guides all the footsteps of thetrusting people of God; and she felt sure that a bright eventide was instore for those so truly dear to her. With her brother's consent shewrote to the cottage, fixing an early day for the return home, thinkingit wiser to remain at Flixworth Manor herself, that her presence, whenthe earnestly desired meeting should take place, might be a comfort toall parties, and might help to dispel any little cloud which memories ofthe past might cause to hover even over an hour so full of gladness. The day came at last. All outside the Manor-house was as bright aswell-kept walks, closely-mown turf, and flower-beds gay with the richand tastefully blended tints of multitudes of bright and fragrantflowers, could make it. Harry had taken the fine old entrance hallunder his own special care. How the bedrooms or sitting-rooms mightlook was not his concern, but that the hall should look its venerablebest, and that the plate should be bright, that was his business; it wasfor him to see to it, and see to it he did. Never were plate-powder andwash-leather put into more vigorous exercise, and never was old oakstaircase and panelling bees'-waxed and rubbed with more untiringenergy; so that, as the western sun poured his rays in through windowsand fanlight, a cheery brightness flashed from a hundred mirror-likesurfaces, including some ancestral helmets and other pieces of armour, which glowed with a lustre unknown by them in the days when they wereworn by their owners. "That'll do, and no mistake, " said the old manhalf out loud, as, dressed in his best, he walked from one corner of thehall to another, standing a while at each to take in fully all thebeauties of the prospect. "Yes, that'll do; don't you think so, Polly?"Now this question was addressed, not to a fellow-servant, for all wereat the time busily engaged elsewhere, but to a grey parrot, one of thosesedate and solemn-looking birds whose remarks are generally in singularcontrast to their outward gravity of demeanour. The parrot made noreply, but looked a little bewildered. "Ah, I see how it is, " saidHarry; "you are puzzled at so much brightness. Why, you can seeyourself reflected a dozen times. What a satisfaction it will be to thedear old missus to see a likeness of herself in every panel as she walksupstairs. " Satisfied with this thought, he looked round him once againwith an air of considerable contentment--as well he might, foreverything spoke of comfort, refinement, and welcome, and of thediligent hands and loving hearts which had provided these. So, with onemore glance round, he again exclaimed, "Yes, it'll do; and I think thedear old missus 'll think so too, " at the same time bowing low to theparrot, whose only reply, "Pretty Poll, " was appreciative rather of herown attractions than of those of her surroundings. 

And now a sound of wheels was heard, and all the inmates of the housecrowded into the hall. A minute more and the steps were reached, andthe hall-door was opened by a trembling but faithful hand. The youngpeople were the first to alight; and then Mrs Huntingdon, handed out ofthe carriage by Walter, and leaning on the arm of Amos, entered oncemore the home she had left so sadly. Her husband's arms were at onceround her, but he restrained himself by a strong effort, and just drewher gently very closely to him, whispering to her, as audibly as tearswould let him, "Welcome home again, my dear, dear wife. " And shereturned the loving pressure, and spoke in subdued voice herthankfulness to be at home with him once more; and then they stood apartand gazed earnestly at each other. Ay, there was change in each. Timeand care and sorrow had done their work and ploughed their furrows; butthere was a sweet peace which neither had before seen in the other, and, to Mr Huntingdon's glad surprise and almost awe, a heavenly beauty inhis recovered wife's face which he knew not then how to account for, buthe was not long in learning its source. 

And now, as husband and wife, once more united, were about to move on, old Harry stepped forward, and with the profoundest of bows, and a veryunsteady voice, wished his old mistress all health and happiness formany long years among them. Mrs Huntingdon could not trust herself tospeak, but she held out her hand to him, which he took as gently in hisown as if it had been some article of ornamental glass of a peculiarlybrittle nature, and then saluted it with a fervent kiss; after which, rather abashed at his own proceeding, he shrank back, and allowed thehappy travellers to make their way upstairs. But he could not besatisfied with having given so partial a vent to his feelings. So, whenthe hall was again all his own, he began to trip round it in a measuredsort of dance, to the intense amusement of Julia and Walter, who werelooking over the banisters from above on the performer, who was notconscious at the moment of being so observed. On the old man went, waxing more and more energetic, till at last he swayed himself into thecentre of the hall, and gave expression to the vehemence of his feelingsin a complicated sort of movement which he intended for a jump orspring, but which brought him down on all fours, amidst a burst ofirrepressible laughter from the young people who were looking on. Alittle disconcerted, Harry was just recovering his feet, when theparrot, who had learned a few short phrases in times past, principallyfrom Walter, and had now been eyeing Harry's movements, with his greyhead on one side, and his thoughtful eye twinkling restlessly, exclaimed, in an almost sepulchral voice, "What's up now?" The old manstared comically at the unexpected speaker, and then said, as he brushedthe dust off his knees, "What's up now? why, you stupid old bird, there's a great deal that's up now. I'm up now, though I was down aminute ago. And Miss Julia as was and Master Walter's up now, forthey're up on the landing a-laughing at me. And the dear old missus isup now; she's up in her room with master, and we don't want her to bedown in spirits no more. There, Polly, I've answered your question, andanswered it well, I think. "

Never did a happier party gather round the dinner-table at FlixworthManor; never did the old butler ply his office with a readier hand and abrighter countenance. Dinner over, and all being grouped together inthe drawing-room, where many loving words had passed, Walter turned tohis father and said, "I have two requests to make to you, dear father. "

"Well, my boy, what are they? they must be strange and unreasonableindeed if I refuse to grant them on such a night as this. "

"I don't think, father, that you will call them so. "

"Well, what are they?"

"The first is, that Amos may be our chaplain just for once at familyprayers to-night. "

All looked surprised, but none more so than Amos himself. Half risingfrom his seat, he laid a remonstrating hand upon his brother's arm; butit was now too late. The colour flushed over his face, and he lookeduneasily at his father's countenance, which was much troubled; yet therewas no look of anger there, but rather a shade of deep sadness had creptover it. The truth was, Mr Huntingdon had always entertained aprofound respect for religion, and an equally profound contempt forhypocrites; but nothing beyond this had till lately been thought by himto be necessary for his taking his place in society as a respectablyreligious man. He wished all his dependants to be sober and honest, andto go to church, read their Bibles, and say their prayers; and what morecould be required of him or them? And, in order to set a good examplein his family and to his tenants, he always himself conducted familyprayers night and morning, reading a few verses of Scripture, and aplain and suitable prayer. Nevertheless, he had simply done thishitherto as a duty, as a matter of form, and always rose from his kneeswith a mingled feeling of satisfaction at having performed a duty, andof relief that a somewhat irksome task was over. But now a new view ofreligion, its duties and privileges, had begun to dawn upon him; butstill he had scarce light enough yet to see his way to taking adifferent stand. So, when Walter preferred his request that Amos shouldbe chaplain for that evening, a painful sense of deficiency on his ownpart clouded his spirit, while at the same time he was truly anxious todo anything which would be a step in the direction of real improvementand spiritual blessing to his household. The cloud, however, soonmelted away, and holding out his hand to Walter, and grasping his handwarmly, he said, "With all my heart, my dear boy; nothing could bebetter. Let Amos be chaplain to-night, and not to-night only. I amgetting old, and his younger voice and more experience in such matterswill make it a good thing for us all if he will take the family prayerswhenever he is at home. " As he concluded with faltering voice, Amosbegan to remonstrate in words of earnest deprecation; but his fatherstopped him, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, kindly said, "Do itto please me, and to please us all, dear boy. " Then, turning to Walter, with every shade removed from his countenance, he asked, "And what isyour second request?"

"That's not a very hard one to grant, " replied Walter, smiling, "thoughperhaps you may repent of saying `Yes' when you suffer the consequences. My second request is, that I may be allowed to make a short speech whenfamily prayers are over. "

"Granted at once, my son, " was Mr Huntingdon's reply; "I am sure youwill have an attentive audience. "

"Ah, it may be so, father; but I'm not sure that every member of myattentive audience will hear me willingly. "

And now, when the gong had sounded and the whole family, including theservants, were gathered for the evening devotion, Amos, calm andcollected, took his seat at the table, and when all were assembled, opened the Bible, which Harry had, by his master's direction, put beforehim, at the hundred and third Psalm. Deeply touching were those ferventwords read out with solemn earnestness and pathos by the young man, inthe presence of those he loved so dearly, specially when he lingered onthe third and fourth verses, "Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; whohealeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; whocrowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies. " The psalmfinished, all knelt, and then, in tones low and trembling at first, butgaining in power and firmness as he proceeded, Amos poured out his heartin supplication and thanksgiving, --thanksgiving that all the members ofthat family were once again united under that roof in health and peace;and supplication that they might henceforth, if spared, go hand in handalong the narrow way, as true followers of Him whose service is perfectfreedom. 

Not a tearless eye was there in that company as all rose from theirknees, no one being so deeply affected as Mr Huntingdon, who drew Amosto him with a tenderness which more than repaid his son for everysacrifice and suffering in the past. "And now, " said his father, whenthe servants had left the room, "we are all waiting for your promisedspeech, Walter. " The smile with which the young man rose to his feetpassed away as he saw all eyes earnestly fixed on him. For a moment hehesitated, and then began: "Father and mother dear, I have been learningfor some time past some very important lessons; and my two teachers arehere before you--the one is my dear aunt Kate, and the other is my dearbrother Amos. My aunt has taught me with her lips, and my brother byhis life. --Nay, Amos, you must not interrupt the speaking. At thismoment I am in possession of the house. --My lessons have been on thesubject of moral courage. I used to think I was very brave, and didn'tneed any instruction on such a subject. I looked down upon, and wouldhave despised, only I couldn't, the noblest brother that ever brotherhad. --Ay, ay, it's no use shaking your head, Amos; I am speaking nothingbut the truth. --Over and over again I have shown myself a moral coward;over and over again Aunt Kate has set before me, at my own request, examples of moral heroism from history and real life, just to suit mycase and stir me up to better things; and over and over again I haveseen acted out by my brother there the very lessons I have been so slowin learning. Ah, it has been grand teaching! We have had such a lot ofmoral heroes, --Columbus, and Washington, and Howard, and Luther, andFletcher, and a score more. But here is my moral hero, " saying which hethrew one arm round his weeping brother's neck, and put a hand over hismouth as he proceeded. "Yes, you must hear me out now. Here is thebrother who, with a moral courage that never nagged, that no unkindness, no misunderstanding could bend, has been carrying out for years onegreat purpose, which God has permitted him this day to bring to a fullaccomplishment. That purpose we all see fulfilled in our completefamily gathering to-night. Yes; Amos is my hero of heroes, and he_shall_ hear me say it. I ask his pardon now for all my unworthytreatment of him. He _is_ my hero, for he has nobly conquered. He hasconquered us all, but none more completely than the brother who looksupon it as one of his dearest privileges to be permitted to love him andto try and copy his example. "

What could Amos do? what could he say? Clinging to the impulsivebrother who had thus spoken out impetuously what all felt to be true, and sobbing out his regrets that such words should have been spoken ofone who felt himself to be so undeserving of them, he was utterly at aloss what to reply, nor did any one for the moment venture to add aword. But at last the silence was broken by the clear and gentle voiceof Miss Huntingdon. "It may be, dearest ones, that a few words frommyself may not be out of place after dear Walter's speech. He hasindeed spoken the truth. Our noble Amos has certainly shown us, in thecarrying out of his great heart-purpose, true moral courage in many ofits most striking forms. But he has not been alone in this. I havebeen a privileged teacher by word of mouth, as Walter has said; andright nobly has he learned and applied his lessons, and been pressingforward in his brother's steps. And not only so, but dear Julia hasbeen also learning and practising these lessons. And now I think I needoccupy the teacher's place no longer. I would rather give up my placeto the great Teacher of all, --to Him who both by word and example showsus moral heroism in its perfection of sublimity. I have not hithertoventured specially to dwell on him as being in this, as in every otherexcellence, the one perfect pattern, because Walter wished to beencouraged by examples in those who were imperfect and shortcomingcreatures like ourselves. But I would now express the hope that we mayall henceforth find our happiness in taking Him for our teacher, guide, and model who never shrank from duty, even when to perform it wrung fromhim tears of agony and a bloody sweat, and who held on his coursethrough evil report and good report, spite of blasphemy, persecution, and a bitter and shameful death, till he had finished the work which hisFather had given him to do, and had won for us the victory over sin anddeath, and an imperishable crown of glory. "

THE END.