"Ay, dear aunt," exclaimed Walter, "that was a hero indeed."

"Yes, Walter, a true moral hero; for, if you remember, moral courage is the bravery shown, not in acting from sudden impulse, nor from 'pluck,' as you call it, nor from mere animal daring, but in deliberately resolving to do and doing as a matter of principle or duty what may cost us shame, or loss, or suffering, or even death. Such certainly was Mr Fletcher's courage. A sense of duty and the fear of God upheld him against 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 calmness that he was in God's hands, and not in the hands of Mr Vivian. In thus acting from duty, and deliberately hazarding the loss of his own life rather than do what his conscience disapproved of, Amos exhibited, like Mr Fletcher, the most exalted moral courage."

"Thank you, dear aunt; and I am so glad that I have been permitted to help my hero out of his trouble."

On the third day after this conversation, the post brought the welcome news from Amos that he should bring his sister that afternoon to her old home, and that her children would follow in a day or two. Seven years had elapsed since the erring daughter had left sorrow and shame behind her in her home, by suddenly and clandestinely quitting it, to become, without the sanction of father or mother, the wife of a specious but profligate and needy adventurer. And now, sad and forsaken, she was returning 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 familiar sights which presented themselves to her on all sides, as she and Amos drove along the well-known roads, in through the great green gates, up the drive, and then, with a sudden pull up, to the front door. The next moment she had sprung on to the door-steps with an eager cry, and found herself clasped in her father's arms.

"My poor, poor child! welcome home again," he murmured, with choking tears.

"O father! father!" she cried, "it is too much happiness." She could say no more.

Then she received the warm embrace of her aunt, who was saddened to mark the lines of care on that young face, which was all brightness the last time she had seen it. And then, as she raised herself up, and disengaged herself from those loving arms, her eyes fell on the old butler, who was twisting a large red pocket-handkerchief into a rope, in his vain efforts to restrain his emotions, which at last found vent in a long cadence of mingled sobs and exclamations. For a moment Julia Vivian hesitated, and then flung her arms round the neck of the old man, who made the hall ring with a shout of thanksgiving. Then, calming down, he said, half out loud, and half confidentially to himself, "You know it was to be so, and so it is. We've got Miss Julia as was back among 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 the great purpose to which he had devoted his life was now accomplished. The banished sister had been welcomed back by his father to her earthly home. And yet, how much still remained to be done! But, as he had worked on in faith and trust before, so he would continue trusting, watching, working, committing all to the wise guiding and overruling of that 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 that evening!—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 deep and hidden sorrow, and of an abiding humiliation, which not even the pure love that now beamed on her from all sides could remove from the burdened spirit of the restored wanderer. Down in the kitchen, however, the rejoicing was unclouded, except that Harry mourned over his young mistress's faded beauty and sad looks, and occupied a considerable portion of his leisure time in punching an imaginary head, held firm under his left arm, and supposed by his fellow-servants to belong to Miss Julia's brute of a husband.

Dinner had been over rather more than an hour, when Walter, who had been absent for a short time from the drawing-room, returned, beckoned to Amos, and then, gently laying hold of his sister's hand, drew her towards the door. "Come here, just for one minute," he said, with a merry smile twinkling in his eyes. "Father will spare you just for a minute;" and he conducted her out of the room. Oh, what a flood of joy came into her heart with that smile of Walter's. Years had passed since she had rejoiced in its light. What would she have given could the frightful interval between this smile and the last she had seen before it have been wiped clean out! To her that interval had been one prolonged and gloomy frown. But now the three, Amos, Walter, and their sister, made their way downstairs. Oh, it was so like a bit of childish fun in days gone by! And now they arrived at the butler's pantry, the door of which was fast closed. Walter knocked. "Come in," said the old man. They entered; and all exclaimed at the sight which presented itself. On every available projection there was placed a portion of a candle, making in all some thirty or forty lights, which made the little room one brilliant blaze. On the wall opposite the door were the words, "Welcome home again," in large red and blue letters; and on another wall the words, "Hip, hip, hooray!" in golden characters.

"O dear Harry!" cried his young mistress, her face glowing with such a smile as no one had seen on it yet since her return, "how good and kind of 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 me talked about having a bonfire on the hill; but when we came to think it over, 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 and got up a little bit of an illumination all of my own self. But don't you go for to suppose as these candles belongs to master. I'm not the man to use his goods this way without leave. It's a pound of the best composite as I bought out of my own wages, and you're heartily welcome to every one on 'em."

"Thank you, dear Harry," she said, holding out her hand to him; "it is the 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 with happiness. "And now, before we part, we must have a bit of toffee all round, as you was used to in old times." So saying, he opened an old drawer, which seemed abundantly furnished with sundry kinds of sweets, and produced the toffee, which he pressed upon each of his three visitors. "There," he said in a tone of deep satisfaction, "that's just as it should be; and now, Miss Julia," he added, "when you want any more, you know where to come for it."

Few happier hearts were laid on a bed that night in England than the heart of old Harry the butler.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

TRUE SHAME VERSUS FALSE SHAME.

While Amos rejoiced greatly in the return of his sister, there was much still to be accomplished before his great object could be fairly said to be attained, even in her case. Nothing could be kinder than Mr Huntingdon's treatment of his restored child; and when her little ones joined her, it seemed as if the pent back affections of the squire were coming forth in such a rush as would almost overwhelm his grandchildren with a flood of indulgence. Brighter days, then, had come; nevertheless, Amos could not help seeing much in the character and conduct of both his sister and Walter which saddened him. Acting himself on the highest of all principles—the constraining love of the heavenly Master—he could not be content till the same holy motive should have its place in the hearts of those he so dearly loved.

Sorrow had subdued and softened in Julia the less amiable features in her character; while all that Amos had done and suffered and was still doing for herself and her children could not but draw out her heart to him. But yet, while she loved and respected Amos, she just simply dearly loved Walter; towards him the deeper and tenderer feelings of her heart went forth. And Walter himself—though Amos was the object of his warmest admiration, and, in a certain sense, of his imitation—was far from adopting the standard and motives of his brother. To do simply what his conscience told him to be right, when such a course would cut the prejudices of his gay worldly friends across the grain, was a thing he was by no means prepared for; and here he had his sister's sympathy. Not that she openly advocated a worldly and compromising line of conduct—for indeed she was too glad to leave for a while argument and outspoken opinions to others—but she made him feel in her private conversations with him that the world and its ways and maxims were still her own guide and standard.

Amos could see this more or less, and he deeply deplored it; but he trusted still that prayer, patience, and perseverance would yet bring his beloved brother and restored sister to look at duty and wisdom in the light of God's Word. And Walter gave him at times much encouragement. He could no longer despise Amos, nor pride himself in his own superiority to him. The beauty of his elder brother's character, the nobleness of his aims, the singleness of eye that was manifest in him, his unselfishness and patience, these traits had won the unfeigned admiration of Walter, an admiration which he was too generous not to acknowledge. But yet, all the while, he rather fretted under Amos's rigid consistency, remarking to his sister that really it was a bit of a bondage to have to be always so very good, and that one must not be so over-particular if one was to get on with people who were not yet exactly angels. But still, he was vexed with himself when he had made such observations, and resolved in his heart to be more circumspect for the future.

When Julia Vivian had been some weeks in her old home, Walter exclaimed one 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 had only had her a short time."

"Why, father," replied Walter, "I imagine the fact is that Gregson's purse is getting worn into a hole or two."

"I understood," remarked Miss Huntingdon, "that his father was a very wealthy man, and allowed his son, as you used to put it, no end of money."

"True, aunt; but I think he has been betting and losing pretty heavily lately, 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 your worship 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 your guinea, for then I shall get a horse worth a hundred guineas for two guineas; and if you win, you can either keep the mare or hand her over to 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-natured thing by giving Gregson a helping hand out of his difficulties, for it will take a good deal of hunting up to get a hundred names for the raffle."

"But, my boy," said the squire, "remember there's some one else to be considered 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 own pony, 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 my own pony."

"That is to say, if you are the winner, my boy; but there will be ninety-nine chances to one against that."

"Oh yes, I know that, father; but 'nothing venture, nothing win,' says the 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 to have 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 believe raffles to be utterly wrong in principle, and so there must be harm in them. They are just simply a mild form of gambling, and nothing got by them 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 of getting anything from another person's possession honestly: you must either 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 is marketably worth, or something in exchange which will be worth as much to the person from whom you are getting the thing as the thing he is parting with is worth to him; or you must have it as a free gift from its owner. Now a raffle fulfils none of these conditions. Take the case of this mare Rosebud. Suppose you pay your guinea, and prove the successful person. You have not earned Rosebud, for you have not given a hundred guineas' worth of labour for her. You have not given a fair equivalent, such as an equally good horse or something else of the same value, nor an equivalent in money, for you have given only a guinea for what is worth a hundred guineas. Nor have you received her as a free gift."

"I quite agree with you, Amos," said his father; "you have put it very clearly. I think these raffles, in which you risk your little in the hope of getting some one else's much, are thoroughly unwholesome and dangerous in principle, and are calculated to encourage a taste for more serious gambling."

"But stop there, please, dear father," said Walter. "When a man gives his guinea for what is worth one hundred guineas, or when a man bets say one 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 loses it willingly."

"Nay, not so," said Amos. "He is not willing to lose his larger sum; he makes no out-and-out gift of it. In laying his larger sum against your smaller, he does so because he is persuaded or fully expects that he shall 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 Huntingdon said, in her clear gentle voice, "Surely dear Amos is right. If the principle of gambling is in the raffle, though in a seemingly more innocent form, how can it be otherwise than perilous and wrong to engage in such things? Oh, there is such a terrible fascination in this venturing one's little in the hope of making it much, not by honest work of hand or brain, nor by giving an equivalent, nor by receiving it as the free-will loving gift of one who gladly does us a kindness. What this fascination may lead to is to be seen in that terrible paradise of the gambler, Monaco, on the shore of the lovely Mediterranean. I have lately heard a most thrilling account of what is to be seen in that fearfully attractive palace of despair. Lovely gardens are there, ravishing music, an exquisite salon where the entranced players meet to throw away fortune, peace, and hope. At first you might imagine you were in a church, so still and serious are the deluded mammon- worshippers. And what follows? I will mention but one case; it is a well-attested one. Two young Russian ladies, wealthy heiresses, entered the gaming-hall. For a while they looked on with indifference; then with some little interest; then the spell began to work. The fascination drew them on; they sat down, they played. At first they won; then they lost. Then they staked larger and larger sums in the vain hope of recovering the gold which was rapidly slipping away from their possession. But they played on. Loss followed loss; they still went on playing. Then they staked the last money they had, and lost. Bankrupt and heart-broken, they betook themselves to the cliffs that overhang the Mediterranean, and, hand in hand, plunged into the sea and were lost. Oh, can that be innocent which in any degree tends to encourage this thirst for getting gain not in the paths of honest industry, but in a way which God cannot and does not bless?"

She paused. Walter hung down his head, while his features worked uneasily. Then he slowly raised his face, and said, "I suppose I'm wrong; but then, what is to be done? Gregson will ask me about it, and what 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 and shaking 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 think I must, unless I wish to be laughed at till they've jeered all the spirit out of me."

Amos made no answer, nor did Miss Huntingdon; but as Walter looked towards her, with no very happy expression of countenance, she quietly laid one hand across the other. He saw it and coloured, and then, with a disdainful toss of the head, hurried away. But the arrow had hit its mark. As Miss Huntingdon was about to prepare for bed, she heard a low voice outside her door saying, "May a naughty boy come in?" and Walter was admitted. The tears were in his eyes as he kissed his aunt and sat down. "I am waiting for the rod," he said, half mournfully and half playfully. "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 hero that isn't like me."

"Dear boy," said his aunt, placing her hands lovingly on his head, "you were wrong, I know; but you are right now, and I think you mean to keep so. I have a beautiful instance here of moral courage, just to the point; I was reading about it a few minutes ago.

"A young man once called on a most earnest and experienced minister of the gospel, Dr Spencer of Brooklyn, New York, about his difficulties in his earthly calling. He was salesman in a dry-goods store, and was required 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 who entered the store, by her dress, her manner, her look, the tone of her voice, whether she had much knowledge of the article she wished to purchase; and if she had not, he must put the price higher, as high as he thought she could be induced to pay. With one class of customers he must always begin by asking a half or a third more than the regular price; and if any objection was made, he was to say, 'We have never sold it any cheaper,' or, 'You cannot buy that quality of goods any lower in the city.' In fact, a very large portion of the service expected of him was just to lie for the purpose of cheating. When he expressed his doubts about this being right, his employer laughed at him. 'Everybody does it,' he said; 'You can't be a merchant without it. All is fair in trade. You are too green.'—'I know I am too green,' the young man said to the minister sorrowfully; 'for I was brought up in the country, and don't know much of the world. My mother is a poor widow, but I don't believe 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 a church member, and yet I believe it would make my old mother very bad if she knew I was doing such things every day.'—'Well, then,' said the good pastor, 'take your mother's way, and refuse his.'—'I shall lose my place then.'—'Well, lose your place; don't hesitate a moment; tell your employer you will do all that you honestly can, but that you were not engaged to deceive, to cheat, to lie.'—'If I should say that, he would tell me to be off.'—'Very well; be off, then.'—'I have no other place to go to, and he knows it.'—'No matter; go anywhere, do anything—dig potatoes, black boots, sweep the streets for a living, sooner than yield for one hour to such temptation.'—'But if I leave that place so soon, it will make my old mother feel very bad; she will think that I am getting unsteady; she will be afraid that I am going to ruin.'—'Not a bit of it; tell her just the truth, and you will fill her old heart with joy. She will thank God that she has got such a son, and she will send up into heaven another prayer for you, which I would rather have than all the gold of Ophir. Now, go back to your store, and do all your duties most faithfully and punctually without lying. If your employer is not a fool, he will like you the better for it, and prize you the more, for he will at once see that he has got one clerk on whose truthfulness he can depend. But if the man is as silly as he is unconscientious, he will probably dismiss you before long. After that, you may be sure that God will open a way for you somewhere.'—The young man took Dr Spencer's advice, and lost his place, but soon found another, and afterwards became an eminent and prosperous merchant, while his old employer became bankrupt in about seven years after he left him, and had to toil on in disgraceful poverty. Dr Spencer adds, 'I attribute this young man's integrity, conversion, and salvation to his old mother, as he always fondly called her.'

"Now, dear Walter, you were saying, I think, when we were discussing the raffle, that we cannot always be doing just what is right, and that Gregson and Saunders would make great fun of you if you were to refuse to put down your name because Amos thinks it wrong to raffle. Does not that young American's case show very plainly that we ought to aim at always doing right? And is it not better to please a dear Christian old mother, or a dear Christian brother like Amos, than to be smiled upon by a dishonest master, or by such companions as Saunders or Gregson? You see, the young man acted with true moral courage when he braved the sneers and displeasure of his unscrupulous employer; and he found his reward 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 he rose, flung his arms round his aunt's neck, kissed her half a dozen times very warmly, and, whispering in her ear, "Pray for me, dear auntie," hastily left the room. Oh, how Miss Huntingdon rejoiced at these few simple and touching words, both on Walter's own account and also on Amos's. She was sure now that her beloved nephew was feeling his way into the narrow path, and would be all right on the road before long.

A few days later, while Miss Huntingdon, Julia, and Amos were writing their letters a little before luncheon time, Walter opened the door and looked in with a comical expression on his face. "Are you all very busy?" he asked. Having received a reply in the negative, he advanced to the fire, crouched down by his aunt, hid his face in her lap, and then, looking up at her with a smile, said, "I've come to make an announcement and a confession. First and foremost, the raffle has come to grief, partly, I suppose, because Walter Huntingdon, junior, Esquire of Flixworth Manor, in the county of Hertfordshire, has refused to put down his name or have anything to do with it. There—what does the present company think of this important announcement?"

Amos and his aunt replied by loving smiles; Julia kept her eyes fixed on some work she had taken up.

"My next announcement," continued Walter, "is of equal interest and importance. The great firm of Huntingdon, Gregson, and Saunders has dissolved partnership. What do you say to that?"

Amos left his place at the table, and kneeling down close to his brother drew him warmly to him, his tears falling fast all the while as he whispered, "Dear, dear Walter, how happy you have made me!"

"Do you want to hear all about it?" asked the other. "Would you like to hear my confession?"

"By all means, dear boy," said his aunt, placing a fond hand on the head of each of the brothers. Julia left her place and crouched down close to Walter, so that her aunt's hands could include herself in their gentle pressure.

"Now for it," said Walter, rising and standing erect, with his back to the fire. "Yesterday," he continued, "as I was riding out before dinner, I met Saunders and Gregson on horseback. Gregson was riding Rosebud.—'Well,' said Gregson, 'is Rosebud to be yours?'—'Can't afford it,' I said; 'a hundred guineas is too much. I haven't got the money to spare.'—'No, of course not,' he said; 'but you can spare a guinea.'—'Yes,' I replied; 'but that won't buy Rosebud.'—'No,' he said; 'but it will give you a chance of getting her for a guinea.'—'That's one way,' I said; 'but it don't seem the right one to me. What do you say to swopping Rosebud for my pony? then you'll have an equivalent, at least if you think so.'—Saunders and he looked at one another as if they had seen a ghost; and then I said, 'Perhaps I can work out the value. Let me see. Will you give me fifty guineas a year if I take the place of groom to you? I may earn Rosebud that way in two years if you give her to me instead of wages.'—My two companions began to whisper to one another, and to stare at me as if I'd just come out of an Egyptian mummy-case.—'What's up now?' I said.—'We can't make you out,' said Saunders; 'whatever are you driving at?'—'Oh, I'll soon make that clear!' I said. 'The fact is, gentlemen, I've been led to the conclusion 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't afford the hundred guineas, and you won't take my pony in exchange. The second way is by earning her—that is, by my doing so much work as will be of the same value; but it wouldn't suit you nor me for me to take the place of your groom for a couple of years. And the third way is for me to have her as a free gift; but I'm not so sanguine as to suppose that you mean to give her to me right out.'—'And where have you got all this precious nonsense from?' cried Saunders.—'In the first place,' I answered, 'you're right about the "precious," but wrong about the "nonsense;" it's precious truth. In the next place, I have learned these views on the subject of raffles from my brother Amos.'—Then there was a hullaballoo. 'Your brother Amos!' they shouted out, as if my dear brother was the very last person in the world that anything good or sensible 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 it comes from him as from any one else.'—They were both taken aback, I can tell you. But I stuck to my point. They tried to chaff me out of it by saying, 'Well, I would be a man if I were you, and have an opinion of my own.'—'I have an opinion of my own,' said I, 'and it's none the less my own because it's the same as my brother's.'—'He daren't move a step by himself now for that brother of his,' sneered Saunders.—To this I replied, 'I'll just give you an answer in the words of one whose opinion you'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 Amos again; so I just told them that I had found by experience that my brother's advice and opinion were worth taking, and that I had no wish to 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 go different ways; so we raised our hats to one another and took leave, and thus ended the partnership of Huntingdon, Gregson, and Saunders."

There was silence for a while, during which the hands of the two brothers were clasped tightly in each other. At last Miss Huntingdon said, "Now, dear Walter, you may make your laurel crown whenever you please, 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 recovered her once lively spirits, and scattered much brightness round her. Miss Huntingdon would have retired, and left her to take the management of her father's household, but she implored her not to do so; and as Mr Huntingdon himself evidently preferred that his sister should keep her usual position in the family, at any rate for the present, she consented, hoping that the united influence of Amos and herself might be the means, under God, of bringing Julia and Walter to take a decided stand on the Lord's side.

So far, Walter was manifestly anxious to do what was right and to support his elder brother in his endeavours to bring a holy peace into the household. But his good intentions were often thwarted by his natural self-esteem. As for Julia, she was by no means prepared to see things in the same light that Amos did. Naturally high-spirited and self-willed, her troubles had rather bent her down for a while than in any degree permanently improved her character,—for there never was a truer remark than that of an old writer when he says, "Circumstances do not make us what we are, they rather show what we are." And now that one of her heaviest burdens was gone, she was very reluctant to curb her temper or give up her own will when to Amos it was her plain duty to do so. Self was none the less her idol because much of the gilding with which it had been adorned in happier days had been rudely rasped from it. She wished to please Amos, but she wished to please herself more. And whenever Amos's views and those of Walter did not quite coincide, she always took side with the younger brother. Amos saw this, of course, but he was willing to bide his time. One part of his great object had been accomplished,—his sister had been restored to her old home and to her father's heart.

Mr Huntingdon, of course, never alluded to the past, and took great delight in his grandchildren, who were left pretty much to the care and training of an excellent servant whom Amos had chosen for them by his father's desire, and also to the loving and wise instructions of Miss Huntingdon; for their mother professed that she had not yet recovered health and energy sufficient to enable her to look after them herself. Amos saw this with regret, and wished that his sister could take a right view of her duty in the matter. At the same time he felt sure that the day had not yet come for making any attempt to bring his mother home again. He must defer this his cherished hope and purpose till his sister should have come to a different and better mind. For as she recovered herself, which she soon did, from the effects of her late life of trial and privation, Julia Vivian gave herself up almost entirely to reading amusing books, fishing, riding, and making one in any little party of pleasure which could be got up for her. She saw her children just for a few minutes night and morning, but evidently felt it rather a distasteful toil than a pleasure if anything obliged her now and then to give them a little extra attention. Indeed, she seemed to have got the idea firmly fixed in her mind that she was now to get all the enjoyment she could to make up for past years of trouble, and that the main business of her two brothers was to provide for her comfort and entertainment. And very charming she could make herself when her own tastes and whims were gratified, but anything like thwarting or opposition produced in her at once gloom and irritation. For her father's sake and the credit of the family she abstained from showing herself at large parties and entertainments where many of the guests would know a good deal about her past history; but whenever she could join in a bit of excitement without bringing herself into notice, she was wild to avail herself of the opportunity, and would not let children or home be any hindrance if she could possibly help it.

Summer had arrived, when one morning the post brought Mr Huntingdon a huge bill printed in letters of various shapes, colours, and sizes, from which it appeared that "the wonderful acrobat, Signor Giovani Telitetti, of world-wide celebrity, would exhibit some marvellous feats, to conclude with a dance on the high rope." The entertainment was to be given in a park situate in the next county, about ten miles distant from Flixworth Manor.

"There," said the squire, tossing the bill from him, so that it floated on to the loaf and settled there, "I suppose we shall none of us think it worth while to ride or drive ten miles to see this wonderful performer."

"Oh, I should so like to go!" cried Julia, when she had glanced through the 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 possible harm. No one will notice us; there will be thousands of people, and we shall be lost in the crowd. People are never so thoroughly alone as when 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 quite above such things; but Walter might take me,—wouldn't you, dear Walter?—Now, may I go, dear father, if Walter takes me? It will be such fun cantering there and back this delightful summer weather." She looked at Walter beseechingly, and her father hem'd and ha'd, not quite knowing 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," she added; "it will be all right. I will be as grave as a duenna; and when I come back Amos shall read me an essay on prudence, and I will listen to every word and be so good."

No further opposition was attempted, and Walter considered himself bound to escort his sister.

On the following Wednesday, after luncheon, Walter and Julia set off for the place of amusement in high spirits. Julia was looking specially bright and attractive; and Walter, though he did not feel fully satisfied in going, yet threw himself now into the excitement with all his might, partly for his sister's sake, and partly to drown any murmurs of conscience which he was not prepared to listen to. So with a merry ringing laugh they set off, and arrived at the park on the best terms with themselves and with each other. Large numbers of people had already assembled, and the place was glowing with banners and glittering devices, and resounding with the vigorous music of a brass band. Signor Telitetti was to be the special attraction, but there were many other objects of interest and excitement forming part of the entertainment. Among these were a small theatre, and a tent in which were various enticing-looking articles to be raffled for. The noble park, with its groups of trees of different species, its sloping sward, and a lake in the centre well stocked with water-fowl of various kinds, gave ample room and amusement to the motley multitude which had gathered for the show.

Walter and his sister, having left their horses at a neighbouring stable, paid their money at the gate, strolled into the park, and made their way amongst the crowds bent like themselves on getting as large a draught of excitement as the occasion would afford. As they came near the tent, they encountered Gregson and Saunders arm in arm. The young men took off their hats with an exaggerated show of politeness, and Saunders said half out loud as they passed on, "Not going in just at present 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 have gladly beat a hasty retreat had he been alone. But now a more than ordinarily vehement flourish of music warned the spectators that Signor Telitetti was about to commence his athletic wonders. All crowded up to the place of exhibition, which was a broad open space in the very midst of the park, where a wooden structure had been erected, representing some grand palace or temple in Eastern style, and being gorgeously and profusely painted and gilded. In front of this were various smaller wooden erections, set up for the purpose of exhibiting the powers of the acrobat; while from the highest part of the sham palace a stout rope was led along at a considerable height from the ground to a neighbouring tree, from that tree to a second, and then down to the ground by a rapid incline.

All eyes were on the signor as he took his stand in front of the wooden building. Walter and his sister had pressed nearly to the edge of the crowd, and gazed with the deepest interest on the performer, who was habited in the tight-fitting garment usually worn by persons of his calling, his head, however, being enveloped in a strangely made, many- coloured cap, which very much concealed his features; indeed it looked as if he were wearing a sort of mask, and that his eyes alone were unhidden. Had Walter or his sister seen him anywhere before? Walter was not sure, and yet he had an impression that there was something about the man familiar to him, but perhaps it was only the general similarity to others dressed for exhibitions of the like kind. He was surprised, however, and startled to find his sister, as she leaned her full weight on his arm, trembling violently. It might have been merely excitement; but the announcement that the signor's feats were about to commence prevented his asking his sister the cause of her agitation. And now all sorts of strange contortions, unnatural postures, and perverse displays of muscular eccentricity were gone through by the exhibitor, much to the satisfaction of the applauding crowd. As to Walter, somehow or other the whole thing seemed full of emptiness. Why was it so? Surely because, to use the forcible language of Chalmers, "the expulsive power of a superior affection" had begun to make such exhibitions distasteful to him. However, he had not much time for reflection. The acrobat was now coming to his performances on the rope. Hitherto his exertions and feats had been attended simply with difficulty; now they were to be attended with danger, and were therefore looked upon by the multitude with thrilling and breathless interest. Springing upon the rope, pole in hand, he made his way rapidly up the sloping cord, then from one tree to another, and then high in mid-air to the summit of the wooden palace or temple. Vehement bursts of applause rewarded him for this feat accomplished. And now he came down from his height on his return journey, which he accomplished with perfect ease. Again he was in the act of ascending, when, looking round for a moment on the crowd below him, his eye fell on Walter and his sister. Then a change appeared to come over him,—he seemed to have lost his steadiness and self-possession. Nevertheless he continued his upward course. But when he had gained the part of the rope which sloped upwards to the temple, and was about to exhibit some daring feat of agility, twice did he make the effort unsuccessfully, and then, in a third violent attempt, missed his foothold, and fell to the ground amongst the terror-stricken spectators.

Frightful then were the excitement and the cries of the horrified multitude. Some rushed to raise the poor fallen man, while the police struggled to keep back the surging crowd. Drawn on by a strange and terrible fascination, Walter and his sister pressed forward to where the unhappy acrobat lay bleeding and insensible. His features were now more plainly visible,—there could be no mistake about him. Signor Telitetti was 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 the poor shattered player was carried speedily forth from the scene of his transitory triumphs.

"And what shall we do?" asked Walter in a disturbed whisper to his sister.

"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 soon brought 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 to Flixworth Manor, neither venturing a word for some miles. At last Julia, drawing as close to her brother as possible, said in a voice of agitated entreaty, "Walter, dear Walter, you must promise me one thing."

"What is that?" he asked gloomily.

She noticed his manner, and cried, "O Walter, you must; indeed you must."

"Must what?" he asked.

"Oh, you must promise me not to breathe to any one at home—not to my father, not to my aunt, not to any one at all, and least of all to Amos—who it was that—that met with this sad accident to-day. Will you promise me?" Walter was silent for a minute or more. "Oh!" she exclaimed passionately, "you will, you must; I shall be miserable if you do not."

"But," said her brother, "will this be right? ought you not to go to your poor wretched husband? Perhaps he is dying. I am sure Amos would say that you ought."

"Never mind what Amos would say," she exclaimed angrily; "I have not given up my conscience into his keeping. It's of no use; I have suffered 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 were to 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 by concealing it now?"

"Only the good of doing your poor sister a kindness," she said bitterly and pettishly. "But I don't see why it need come out; and it will be time 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 my mind. And as for him, we can get to hear from the hospital people how he 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 was completed almost in silence.

Every one at the Manor was of course deeply interested in the story which Walter had to tell, and shocked at the dreadful termination of the exhibition in the park. That Julia looked scared and ill was naturally no matter of wonder to anybody; to have witnessed such an accident was enough to upset the strongest nerves. In a day or two, however, she had pretty nearly recovered her former spirits, for the newspaper account of the terrible catastrophe finished by stating that Signor Telitetti was going on well; an arm and two or three ribs had been broken, and the body generally much bruised and shaken, but the hospital surgeons did not anticipate fatal results,—it was expected that in a few weeks the signor would be able to go about again. But though this news had come as a relief to Julia Vivian, and raised her spirits, there was by no means unclouded sunshine in her face or words. Conscience would speak, and it spoke in low but distinct utterances of condemnation. She could see, too, that Walter was not altogether feeling towards her as he had done before the accident. She had sunk in his esteem; he clearly did not take the same pleasure in consulting her wishes and getting up schemes for her amusement as formerly. To her aunt and Amos she rarely spoke, except when compelled to do so; and her father would often look at her anxiously, fearing that her health was giving way.

Amos wondered a little, and asked his brother if he could account for the change in their sister; for though at times she was hurried along by a perfect gale of boisterous spirits, at others she was swallowed up by the profoundest gloom. Walter's answer was evasive, and left an impression on his brother's mind that there was something amiss which had been kept back from him. He made several loving attempts to draw his sister out of herself, and to lead her to confide her sorrows or difficulties to him, but all in vain: and when he attempted gently to guide her thoughts to Him who alone could give her true peace, she would turn from him with a vexed expression of countenance and an air of almost disdain. Poor Amos! how grievously was he disappointed to find the sister for whom he had done and suffered so much getting, now that she was restored to her old home, more and more out of sympathy with him in what was highest and best, and giving herself up to reckless and unmitigated selfishness. But he did not, he would not despair. Much had been accomplished already, and, though things were looking black, and heavy clouds were gathering, he would still wait and work in faith and patience, remembering that when the night is darkest the dawn is nearest.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

IN THE DARK VALLEY.

Six weeks after the sad accident in the park the squire sat in the library after breakfast reading the county paper. Suddenly he turned very red, and his chest heaved with emotion, as his eyes ran rapidly through the following paragraph:—

"Extraordinary Proceeding at the County Hospital.

"It will be remembered that some few weeks ago a terrible accident happened to one Signor Telitetti, an acrobat of professedly world-wide reputation. The unfortunate man, while performing on the high rope in the presence of some thousands of spectators, suddenly lost his self- possession, or experienced some failure in power, and in consequence fell from a considerable height to the ground. He was taken to the hospital, where, under the skilful treatment of the medical officers, he made rapid progress towards returning health and strength, having suffered no more serious injuries than the breaking of an arm and two or three ribs. To the astonishment, however, and perplexity of the hospital officials, the signor has managed to leave the premises unobserved, and in his still feeble condition, and with his arm yet in a sling, to get clear away, so that no one had any idea what had become of him. The reason, however, of this move on his part is becoming pretty plain, for it is now being more than whispered about that Signor Telitetti is no foreigner after all, but that this name is only one among many aliases borne by a disreputable stroller and swindler, who some time since victimised Lady Gambit by cheating her out of twenty pounds. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate man, dreading lest the police should pounce upon him when he left the hospital fully cured, contrived to elude their vigilance by taking himself off at a time when no one would suspect him of wishing or being able to change his quarters."

Mr Huntingdon read this over and over again, and his brow contracted as many painful thoughts crowded in upon him. Then, rising, he repaired to the morning room, where the other members of the family were assembled, reading or answering their letters. Taking the paper to Amos, he placed his finger on the painful paragraph, and signed to him to read it. Amos did so with a beating heart and troubled brow. "Anything amiss, father?" asked Walter, noticing the grave look on the faces of Mr Huntingdon and his brother. The squire made no reply, but, holding out his hand for the paper, passed it to his younger son. Julia, looking up, noticed the flushed face of her brother, and, before her father could prevent her, sprang up and, leaning over Walter's shoulder, read the article. Then, with a wild cry, she rushed out of the room.

"Oh! what is the trouble?" exclaimed Miss Huntingdon in a tone of great distress. Once more the paper was passed on, and she read the humiliating paragraph.

All were silent for a while. Then Miss Huntingdon said, "I must go to poor 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 by what she had read, but would be better shortly.

"And now," said Mr Huntingdon, "I want to know if Julia was aware who the 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. I tried to persuade her at the time—for we both knew him too well as he lay on the ground at our feet senseless and bleeding—I tried to persuade her that it was her duty to go with him; but she would not hear of it; she insisted on returning home at once, and said that he would be well looked after at the hospital, and that if she were to go to him he would only swear at her. So at last I gave it up; and she would not be pacified till I promised not to mention to any one that I knew the wretched man to be her husband. I suppose I was wrong in giving this promise,—I have never felt comfortable about it; but she was so miserable till I made it that I gave her my word; and that is just how it was."

"I quite understand you," said his father. "Poor Julia! we must make allowances for her; but she has plainly fallen short of her duty in the matter. I trust, however, that she has now had a wholesome lesson, poor thing, and that for her children's sake, and all our sakes, she will be content with her own home, and more ready to fulfil her duties as a mother."

Amos did not speak, but he was deeply moved. He felt that his sister's proper place would have been at the bedside of the man who, whatever his sins against her, was still her husband, and was when the accident had happened, for anything she knew to the contrary, crushed and dying, and about to be speedily separated from her for ever in this world. But she had 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 home comforts and pleasures which the work of a nurse to the stricken man would involve. And could Amos make her see and acknowledge that she had erred? He feared not.

Dinner-time came. Julia was in her place as usual. There was a gloom over all the party, but no one alluded to the sad cause. And so, things reverted to their ordinary channel in a few days. Julia had become again full of life and spirits, though to close observers there was something forced and unnatural about her mirth and vivacity. And one thing Amos noticed with special pain—it was that she carefully avoided ever being alone with him; if they were accidentally left together by themselves, she would in a moment or two make some excuse for leaving the room.

Thus did things continue, till summer had given place to the rich beauties of autumn. It was on a mellow October morning that the post brought a letter for Amos in a handwriting which was not familiar to him, and from a locality with which he was not acquainted. It was as follows:—

"Dear Sir,—In the course of my duties as Scripture reader in the town of 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 my letter. I was calling about a fortnight ago on a poor widow woman who lives in one of the lowest parts of this town, in a miserable house, or rather part of it. She asked me to step into a small back room and see a lodger whom she had taken in some days before, and who was in a very bad state of health, and indeed not likely to recover. I did as she desired, and found a wretched-looking man seated in an old armchair, bowed together, and racked with a severe cough. One of his arms was in a sling, and he seemed to be suffering considerable pain in his left side. There was something in his appearance different from that of ordinary tramps; and when I heard him speak, I saw at once that he must have had a good education. I could make very little out of him at first, for he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyed when I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the first visit, and he said some very sharp things against religion and the Bible. However, I persevered, and he got a little softened, especially when I brought him a little help and a few comforts from some Christian friends who had got interested in him. He has always avoided speaking about himself and his past 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. This morning I called and found him much worse. I asked him if he would like me to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear of it. Then I asked him if I could do anything more for him. He did not speak for some time, and then he said, 'Yes. Write a few lines for me to Mr Amos Huntingdon'—he gave me your address—'and just tell him how I am. He will know me by the name of Orlando Vivian.' 'Shall I say anything more?' 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 a gentleman, for I think he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man! I fear he is dying, and cannot be here very long. At the same time, I feel it to be my duty to tell you that there is a bad fever raging in the town, and the place where he lives is anything but clean and healthy. And now I have only to ask your pardon for troubling you with this long letter, and to say that I shall be very happy to do anything for your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power, or to meet you at the Collingford station, should you think it right to come down and see him.—I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris."

It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What could be done? What was his duty? What was his sister's duty? He felt in perplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bids us cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt's room and read the letter to her. "What shall I do, dear aunt?" he asked.

"The question, I think, rather is," replied Miss Huntingdon, "What ought not your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to her poor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, and be with him to the last."

"Such is my conviction too," said Amos sadly; "but I fear that Julia will 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 on his brother's face. "You ought to be very bright this beautiful morning. Julia and I have been planning a nice little scheme for this afternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper's help, to bag two or three brace of partridges before dinner-time. I can drive Julia to the gamekeeper'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 will give lovely little bits for a sketch. Won't you join us?"

"Well," replied Amos gravely, "it would be very nice; but just now I have a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if she will 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 deep red and then very pale. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about anything dismal this delicious morning. Oh! don't look so serious, Amos; you are always in the dolefuls now. Why can't you be cheerful and jolly, like Walter?"

"I am sorry to trouble you," replied her brother, "but there is a cause just now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to your jollity if you will." These last words he uttered in a tone of reproach which touched her spite of herself.

She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt's room. When all were seated, Amos produced the Scripture reader's letter, and, expressing his deep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subdued voice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having snatched the letter from her brother's hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving and her eyes flashing, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. "It's a hoax," 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 all the marks of truth.—Don't you think so, Aunt Kate?"

"Yes, surely," replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; "I cannot doubt its genuineness."

Julia then tossed the letter to her brother and sat down. "And what is it, then," she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows, "that you want me to do?"

"I think, dear Julia," said her aunt, "the real question is, What is it your 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 doing his duty? And now I am to go and nurse him in a vile fever-smitten hole, and lose my life, and so deprive my children of a mother, because it's my duty. I don't see it at all."

Both her hearers looked deeply distressed. Then Amos said, "Still he is your husband, and dying."

"Dying!" she exclaimed sneeringly; "not he—it's all pretence. If anything common could have killed him, such as kills other people, he would have been dead ages ago. But he isn't like other men; he has got a 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 than enough already for him and from him. Besides, if you talk of duty, it is surely my duty to think of the dear children, and not run the risk of bringing back the fever to them, supposing I should not be killed by it myself."

"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 let me 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 may be made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader's work. The poor dying man's heart is softened just now, and it may be that when he hears the words of God's truth, and experiences kindness from one who has been treated by him as I have been, he may be led to seek and find pardon before he is taken away."

"But," said his aunt anxiously, "you will be running a great risk of catching 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 taken away, I shall merely have done my duty, and"—his voice trembled as he proceeded—"I shall be the one best spared and least missed in the household." As he uttered these last words, his sister, who had been gradually crouching down shiveringly on to the floor, clasped her hands over her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word. Then Amos turned to his aunt and said, "Will you, dear aunt, kindly explain to my father 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 her bosom heaved convulsively. At last she said in a hoarse, quivering whisper, "Yes, what you like; and—write and tell me if he is really dying." Then she rushed out of the room to her own chamber, but appeared at luncheon with all traces of emotion vanished from her features.

The squire was absent attending a business meeting in the neighbouring town, and nothing had yet been said to Walter on the subject of his brother's departure. That afternoon Amos set off for Collingford, and Walter and his sister on their shooting and sketching expedition, which proved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure to Julia was concerned.

Collingford was nearly a day's journey from Flixworth Manor, so it was not till dark that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out at once the Scripture reader, and obtained full information as to the state of the poor sufferer. Could he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick man was? Mr Harris shook his head.

"I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection," said Amos. "I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord's hands till it is done. He has sent me, and he will keep me."

The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. "You shall lodge in my house," he said, "if you can be satisfied with humble fare and my plain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman who looks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and go just as you please."

"I will take you at your word, my friend," said the other, "and will gladly pay for bed and board."

"All right, all right," cried Mr Harris: "and for my part I am not going to pry into your reasons for coming. You are one of the Lord's servants 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 in the Scripture reader's dwelling.

The next morning, after an early breakfast, the two friends—for true friends they at once became in the bonds of the gospel, loving Christ's image in each other—set out for Orlando Vivian's lodging.

"You must be prepared for something very miserable," said the Scripture reader.

"I am prepared for anything," said the other calmly. But truly Amos was staggered when he entered the room where sat, in the midst of gloom and filth, the man who had been the cause of so much distress to him and his. The atmosphere was oppressive with the concentrated foulness of numberless evil odours. A bed there was in the darkest corner of the room on the floor. It looked as though composed of the refuse raked from a pig-sty, and thrust into a sack which had been used for the conveyance of dust and bones. Bolster or pillow it had none, but against the wall, where the bed's head was supposed to be, were three or four logs of rough wood piled together, over which was laid a faded cloak crumpled into a heap. Such was the only couch which the unhappy sufferer had to lay him down upon at night, or when weary of sitting in the high-backed, creaking armchair. Uncleanness met the eye on every side—in the one greasy plate, on which lay a lump of repulsive-looking food; in the broken-mouthed jug, which reeked with the smell of stale beer; in the window, whose bemired and cobwebbed panes kept out more light than they admitted; in the ceiling, between whose smoke-grimed rafters large rents allowed many an abomination to drop down from the crowded room above; in the three-legged table, which, being loose in all its decaying joints, reeled to and fro at every touch; in the spiders, beetles, and other self-invited specimens of the insect tribe, which had long found a congenial home in these dismal quarters. And there—worn, haggard, hungry, suffering, helpless—in the midst of all this desolation, sat the broken-down, shattered stroller, coughing every now and then as though the spasm would rend him in pieces.

The heart of Amos was touched at the terrible sight with a feeling of the profoundest pity, as he approached the chair occupied by the wreck of what might have been a man noble and good, loving and loved. Anything like resentment was entirely lost in his desire to alleviate if he 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, he trembled violently, and clutched his chair with a convulsive grasp. Then a fit of coughing came on, and all were silent. "I will leave you together, if you please," said the Scripture reader after a pause to Amos. "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. At last, having sipped a little of a soothing mixture which Mr Harris had brought him, he turned his face towards his brother-in-law, who had now taken a seat in front of him on a three-legged stool, and said, "Shall I tell you why I sent to you, Mr Huntingdon?" Amos inclined his head. "It was," continued the sick man, "because I have insulted you, deceived you, entrapped you, and threatened your life. That would be in most cases the very reason why you should have been the very last person I should have sent to. But I believe you are real. I believe you are a true Christian, if there is such a thing. I am not real. I am a sham, a cheat, a lie; my whole life has been a lie; my unbelief has been a lie. But, if there is truth in the Bible and in Christianity, I believe you have found it. I am sure that you are real and genuine. I felt it when I was deceiving you, and I feel it more and more the more I think about it. So, as I am told that it is part of the character of those 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 back exhausted. 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 eyes on his visitor. "Remember how I have behaved to yourself; remember how I have behaved to your sister. Can you really forgive me."

Amos made no immediate reply, but, taking out of his pocket a small New Testament which he had purposely brought with him, read in a clear, earnest voice the parable of the unmerciful servant, and, when he had finished it, added, "How could I ever hope for forgiveness from God if I could not forgive the transgressions of a poor fellow-sinner against myself? Yes, my poor brother, I do freely forgive you; and oh, let me have the happiness of seeing you seek forgiveness of Him who has still a place 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, and for a time Amos feared a fatal result. But at length the sick man regained composure and a lull from his cough, and then said, with slow and painful effort, "It is true. I believe your religion is true. I cannot 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 the other waved his hand impatiently. "No more of that now," he said; "I have other things just at present on my mind. You know that I am a doomed man. The police are looking out for me; but I shall cheat them yet. 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 were coming. Well, it's better she shouldn't come; there's fever about, and I 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 her that I am sorry for my past treatment of her? and keep an eye on the children, 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 himself as quiet as he could, adding that all might yet be well, and that he must now leave him, but would return again in a few hours.

Having sought the good Scripture reader, and ascertained from him that the medical man gave no hopes of the unhappy man living more than a few days, Amos at once confided to his host the sad story of his sister's marriage and its consequences, and now asked his advice and help as to how he could make the remaining time of his brother-in-law's life as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Mr Harris at once threw himself heartily into the matter, and before night the dying man had been tenderly conveyed from his miserable quarters to the Scripture reader's own dwelling, where everything was at once done that could alleviate 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 no words of persuasion, nor any account of his interview with her husband and what he had done for his comfort; for he feared that any such account from himself might just steel her heart against any appeal, and make her rest satisfied with what another was doing for the man whom she had vowed to love in sickness as well as in health. He knew that his scrap of a letter must prove startling by its abruptness; but he had no wish that it should be otherwise. These startling words might rouse her to 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 was full of gratitude to Amos. He also listened with patience and respect when the Scripture was read to him or prayer offered by his side; but he made no remark at such times. It was on the morning of the third day after the patient's removal to his new abode that a hired carriage drew up at the Scripture reader's door, and, to Amos's great pleasure and thankfulness, brought his sister. Yes, and he could tell by her greeting of him and by her whole manner that a new light had dawned upon her heart and conscience, in which the idol of self had been seen by her in somewhat of its true deformity. "Oh, dear Amos!" she cried, as she wept on his shoulder, "pardon me; pity me. I have been wrong, oh, very wrong; 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 full and forgiving love; and then he gave her an account of what he had done since his arrival in Collingford, and told her that her husband was now in the same house as herself, and was receiving every attention and comfort. On hearing this, Julia Vivian would have at once rushed into the sick chamber, but Amos checked her, warning her of the effect such a sudden appearance might have on one in his exhausted and suffering condition. He must himself break the news of her coming gradually.

Entering the neat little bedroom, to his surprise Amos found his brother-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 in your 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 position now! The once down-trodden wife now radiant with health and beauty, a beauty heightened by its passing cloud of tender sadness. The once overbearing, heartless husband now a stranded wreck. How haggard he looked! and how those hollow sunken eyes swam with a tearful look that craved a pity which they seemed at the same time to despair of! And could she give that pity? Had he not forsaken her and her children, and left them to grinding poverty? Had he not raised his hand against her and cruelly smitten her? Had he not laughed her to scorn? Had he not used her as a mere plaything, and then flung her aside, as the child does the toy which it has covered for a time with its caresses? He had done all this, and more; and now she was there before him, but out of his clutches, and able, without fear of harm to herself, to charge him with his past neglect and cruelty. Yes; the outraged wife could have done 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 been sealed for a time. Stealing gently up to his chair, lest any sudden movement should agitate him too much, and yet quivering all the while in every limb from suppressed excitement, she bowed herself over him, and gathered 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 of the thunder-cloud, which has hung overhead for a time in the midst of oppressive stillness, patter at first on the leaves one by one, and then break into a sweeping deluge, so did a storm of weeping pour from the eyes and heart of that crushed and spirit-broken sinner. Hardly daring to place a hand with its pressure of answering love on the neck which that same hand had not long since disfigured with bruises and blood, he yet ventured at last to draw his wife closer to him, whispering, "It is too much." Sweetly soothing him, Julia helped him to dry his tears, and then sat down by his side, taking the hand of his uninjured arm in her own.

No one spoke again for a while. At last Mr Vivian roused himself to an effort, and, disengaging his hand, looked his wife steadily and sorrowfully in the face. "Tell me, Julia," he said, "tell me the truth,—tell me, can you really and from your heart forgive me?—nay, do not speak till you have heard me out,"—for she was about to give an eager reply. "Consider well. You know what I have been to you,—the brute, 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 surely I too have much to be forgiven."

"Not by me," he said earnestly. "And now," he added, "as you have assured me of your forgiveness, and as my days in this world can be but few,—nay, I know it, I know it,—I have two dying requests to make of you, 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 try and pay back part of my deep debt of gratitude to your noblest of brothers, who is standing there—to Amos Huntingdon, whom I dare not call brother; and I will tell you how the payment is to be made—not in gold or silver, for he would not take such payment, but in giving yourself up to the service of that Saviour whom he has truly and courageously followed. That, I know, would be the only payment he would care to accept, and that will rejoice his heart. Will you promise?"

"Oh, that I will!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands passionately together. "I have misunderstood, I have thwarted dear Amos shamefully, but now I can truly say, 'His people shall be my people, and his God my God.'"

"Thank you for that. My second request concerns our children. Promise me that you will not take them from under your brother's eye, and that you will strive to bring them up as he would have you; then I shall know that they will be spared such misery as this, that they will not need to be reminded, by way of warning, of the disgraceful example of their unworthy and guilty father."

"I promise, I promise!" cried the weeping wife, burying her face in her husband's bosom. When she raised her eyes to his again there was a sweet smile on her features as she said, "Dearest Orlando, all may yet be 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 before you the way to the better land, open to us all through our loving Saviour; and I prayed last night—oh, so earnestly—that you might find that way."

"Thank you for that," he said mournfully; "it may be so; at any rate I have 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 the poor penitent's lips.

For three days after this interview he lingered in much pain, but without a murmur. Whenever Mr Harris or Amos read the Word of God and prayed he was deeply attentive, but made no remark. Julia was constantly with him, and poured out her rekindled love in a thousand little tender services. At last the end came: there was neither joy nor peace, but there was not despair,—just one little ray of hope lighted the dark valley.

When the unostentatious funeral was over, Amos and his sister returned home cast down yet hopeful and trustful. That evening a subdued but happy little group gathered in Miss Huntingdon's private sitting-room, consisting of Amos, Julia, Walter, and their aunt. When Amos had answered many questions concerning the last days of his brother-in-law, Walter turned to his aunt and said, "Now, dear auntie, you have some examples of moral courage ready for us I am sure.—Amos, you are to be a good boy, and not to turn your back upon the teacher, as I see you are inclined to do. I know why; but it does not matter. Julia and I want doing good to, if you don't; so let us all attend."

"Yes," said Miss Huntingdon, "I know what you mean, and so of course does your brother; he does not wish to listen to his own praises, but he must not refuse to listen to the praises of others, even though their conduct may more or less resemble his own. I have some noble examples of moral courage to bring before you, for I have been thinking much on the matter since Amos and Julia left us. My heroes and heroines—for I have some of each sex—will now consist of those who have braved death from disease or pestilence in the path of duty. And first of all, I must go back to our old example of moral heroism—I mean, to one who has already furnished us with a lesson—John Howard. That remarkable man was not satisfied with visiting the prisons, and bringing about reforms in them for the benefit and comfort of the poor prisoners. He wished to alleviate the sufferings of his fellow-creatures to a still greater extent; so he formed the plan of visiting the hospitals and lazarettos set apart for contagious diseases in various countries. Amongst other places he went to Smyrna and Constantinople when these cities were suffering from the plague. From Smyrna he sailed in a vessel with a foul 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 still dirty and offensive. Suffering here with headache and slow fever, he was removed to a lazaretto near the town, and had two rooms assigned him, both in as dirty a state as that he had left. His active mind devised a plan for making these rooms more comfortable for the next occupant, and though opposed by the indolence and prejudices of the people about him, he contrived secretly to procure a quarter of a bushel of lime and a brush, and, by rising very early, and bribing his attendant to help him, contrived to have the place completely purified. Now his object in thus exposing himself to infection and disease was not that he might gratify some crotchet, or get a name with the world, but that from personal experience of the unutterable miseries of such places as these lazarettos were, he might be better able to suggest the needful improvements 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 in the balance against high and holy duty."

"A noble hero indeed, dear auntie," cried Walter; "and now for another of the same sort."

"Well, my dear boy, my second example embraces many excellent men, all devoted to the same self-denying and self-sacrificing work,—I am now alluding to the Moravian missionaries. These truly heroic men, not counting their lives dear, left home and friends, not to visit sunny lands, where the charms of the scenery might in a measure make up for the toils and privations they had to undergo, nor to find among Arctic frosts and snows at any rate pure and refreshing breezes, though many of them did go forth into these inclement regions to carry the gospel of peace with them, and in so doing to endure the most terrible hardships. But the Moravians I am now speaking of are those who volunteered to enter the pest-houses and infected places from which they could never come forth again. Here they lived, and here they died, giving up every earthly comfort and attraction that they might set gospel truth before those whose infected and repulsive bodies made them objects of terror and avoidance to all but those self-renouncing followers of their Saviour. Here, indeed, moral courage has reached its height."

"How wonderful!" said Julia thoughtfully, and with a sigh; "I could never have done it."

"No," said Miss Huntingdon; "nor does God commonly require such service from us. And yet, dear Julia, ladies as tenderly brought up as yourself have gone forth cheerfully to little short of certain death from pestilential airs, and have neither shrunk nor murmured when the call came. And this brings me to my last example of what I may call sublime moral courage or heroism. It is taken from the records of the Church Missionary Society. When first that society's noble work began, its agents went forth to settle among the poor negroes of Western Africa in the neighbourhood of Sierra Leone. But the fever that hovered on the coast 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-three male and female missionaries died at their posts. In the year 1823, out of five who went out four died within six months, yet two years afterwards six presented themselves for that mission; and, indeed, since the formation of that mission there have never been men wanting—true heroes of the Lord Jesus Christ—who have willingly offered themselves for the blessed but deadly service. The women were as devoted as the men. A bright young couple, the Reverend Henry Palmer and his wife, landed at Sierra Leone on March 21, 1823. In the beginning of May, not two full months afterwards, the husband was dead; in June, just one month later, the wife was dead also. Yet neither spoke in their dying moments one word of regret, but gloried in the work and in the sacrifice they had been called to make. Another female missionary to the same parts, a widow, said: 'I have now lived one year in Africa, eight months of 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 her husband on her death-bed: 'Never once think that I repent of coming here with you.' Her only fear seemed to be lest her death should discourage others, or damp her husband's zeal.—I have now finished my examples. I am sure, dear children, that they are to the point; I mean, that they are examples of the sublimest moral courage—that courage which leads godly men and women not to shrink from duty though disease and death lie before them or hover over their path."

"Thank you, dearest auntie," said Walter; "you have indeed brought some glorious examples before us, and they just fit in with the conduct of our own dear hero here, who seems to wish us to forget that there ever was 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 purpose to which he had devoted himself had been so thoroughly accomplished; his dear sister had been restored to her earthly home, and the death of her unhappy husband had taken away all fear of her being withdrawn from it again. And, better still, she, the poor wayward and wandering sheep, who till late did not love the fold nor the Good Shepherd's voice, had been sought and found by him, and brought back from the wilderness with rejoicings. The heart of the good brother overflowed with gratitude and praise for this, for it was more than he had yet dared to hope. But there could be no doubt about it. The eyes of his sister had been opened to see how entirely she had hitherto been living to self, while her 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's heart. On the Sunday after her return from her parting visit to her husband, Julia appeared at church in deep mourning, her children wearing the same; and at dinner she had put on a neat widow's cap. Amos had rather expected that she would have treated her married life as a thing so entirely to be forgotten—a thing of misery and shame, a thing of the past to be henceforth to her and others as though it had never been, except so far as her children were concerned—that she would have continued to dress herself and her little ones as usual, so as not by any outward sign to remind those around her that she had suffered any loss, or recall their thoughts to the man who had brought nothing but degradation to herself and disgrace to her family. He was therefore deeply thankful to see that she had taken a different course; for it told of a subdued and chastened spirit, and of a willingness to bear patiently and meekly the burden which her own fault, in a measure at least, had laid upon her. Mr Huntingdon also appreciated her conduct in this matter, and, pressing her fondly to him as she was retiring to rest, kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear, as he looked lovingly 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 been unworthy 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 of the members of the family upstairs by giving expression to his feelings on the subject. But in the kitchen he spoke out his sentiments without any reserve. "Put herself and the children in mourning for such a scoundrel as him! Why, if it had been me, I'd have clothed myself and them in scarlet and gold, just to show how glad I was to be shut of such a scamp for good and all. But perhaps I'm wrong; they tell me the poor man repented at the last. Well, a good thing for him if he did, for I'm sure he'd a precious lot to repent of."