Charles drew the curtains round the bed, and sat down in the window-seat. He did feel sick at heart. His head throbbed, and his heart beat thick, when he thought of the agony he had witnessed, of what was yet to be undergone by his companion, and of the dreadful disclosure which must be made to the father and mother, who were now probably counting the minutes as they flew, in the hope of a joyous meeting with their son. By degrees, he became aware that he was looking only at the dark side of the picture. He reproached himself for overlooking the mercies which had attended this dispensation. His own preservation, that of many besides, that only one life was lost among so many, that the suffering had fallen upon those who were apparently the best able to bear it; and he was not forgetful that the warning which was afforded them all of the uncertainty of life, and health, and peace, was of itself a great mercy. He now remarked the sun disappearing behind the hills, and remembered how he had watched it declining in the heavens, with the confident expectation that the hours of succeeding darkness would be spent in the home of his sisters; that, before the sun should rise again, he would have embraced them, have looked on their faces, and heard their voices, and exchanged affectionate greetings with them. Now the night was to be passed beside the bed of pain, and the sunrise would find him, probably, exhausted and spiritless, and still far from those he loved. "What a little way can we see!" thought Charles: "how uncertain should we ever feel of the future! how prepared for whatever may happen! how grateful for every exemption from suffering! I am not happy now; I cannot be happy while one is near me who is suffering severely: but let me be grateful: let me remember my preservation from personal injury, and let me trust that those who suffer will find strength and comfort from Him who has blessed and preserved me."

While these thoughts passed through his mind, tears coursed each other down his cheeks. He did not check them, for he found relief from these quiet tears. He was, meantime, not forgetful of his charge: he listened to his breathing; it was, at first, loud and irregular, as of one in pain, and now and then a deep sob could be heard. Still Charles sat quiet, for he judged rightly that Monteath would be better able to compose himself, if left undisturbed. By degrees, his breathing became more regular, and all was so quiet, that Charles hoped he was at ease, if not asleep. Meanwhile it was becoming dark, and as night advanced, the public-house was more quiet, and Charles entertained the hope that his friend might be strengthened for his approaching suffering, by a few hours of repose. When the last tinge of brightness had faded from the clouds, and was succeeded by total darkness, Charles still remained in the window-seat: he would not procure a light for fear of noise; and he continued to look out, though nothing was to be seen, but a servant occasionally crossing the yard with a lantern, which cast a dim gleam through the room. The ticking of his watch was the only sound that he heard. It was too dark to see what time it was, but when he imagined he had been sitting about two hours, the loud ringing of a bell broke the silence, and disturbed poor Monteath, who had really been asleep. He attempted to move, but the attempt extorted a deep groan. Charles sprang to the bedside, and spoke to him. "You are in pain again," said he, "but you have been easier, and will be so again soon."

Monteath could not answer him.

Charles rang for a light. It was brought, and Monteath asked what o'clock it was. It was near eleven. "No more!" said he, and he enquired how soon his father and mother could be with him. Charles thought in four or five hours, and he told his friend that if he would be prevailed on to take a little refreshment, he thought he might sleep again.

"O, no, do not ask me to move," replied Monteath.

"You need not move," replied Charles. "I will give it you, while you lie still: but indeed you need it."

"I will," said Monteath. "But have you been beside me all this time, without any refreshment? You must be quite exhausted. Pray go down and have some supper: I shall not want you just now: why did you not leave me?"

Charles, though little inclined to eat, consented to have some supper brought up, but he would not leave his friend. He asked Monteath if he had not enjoyed his repose.

"It was a great rest," was the reply; "but I believe I have had my poor mother in my mind almost all the time. I am afraid she is more unhappy than I am at this moment."

"But when she hears that you have slept, and when she sees you able to speak, and even to comfort her, as I think you will, she will be relieved."

"They will have Mr Everett with them," said Monteath, "and he is a kind and judicious friend. It is he who must free me from this pain," added he. "I hope I shall not hate him for the office, as I have heard that some people hate their surgeons, in spite of themselves."

"No fear of that," said Charles.

"I hope they will not delay it," said Monteath. "I would fain hope that in twelve hours, it will be over. I almost think it cannot be worse than what I suffered when I was lying on the road, before you found me."

"Probably not so bad, and most probably much sooner over. Some people would think me wrong in letting you speak of this, but I think it will do you no harm. You would think about it at all events, and it makes anticipated evils less, to talk rationally about them."

"You are right," said Monteath. "I have been looking steadily at the whole matter, and I want to ask you one thing. Mr Everett will perhaps bring no assistant. If he does not, will you, can you, stand by, and prevent my father from being present? I know he will insist on it, if no friend is at hand but Mr Everett."

"I can, and I certainly will," replied Charles. "I have never attempted any thing of the kind, but I think I can make my resolution equal to the occasion. If I can be of use, I shall not think of myself."

"Thank you, thank you," replied Monteath. "Things might have been worse with me yet. There might have been no one who would have had compassion on me, no friend who would have comforted me as you are doing."

"I can do little," said Charles. "There is a better friend with you, who can yield support when earthly friends are far away, or too feeble to give comfort. I hope you feel this."

"I do now, more than ever in my life before. Just now, I was in too much pain to think of any thing: but I am easy enough to think, and speak, and listen, at present. Have you a Bible with you?"

Charles instantly produced his Bible, and asked his friend what he should read.

"The forty-second and forty-third Psalms first," said Monteath.

Charles read them, and afterwards chose a chapter in the New Testament, and with pleasure he perceived that Monteath appeared more and more tranquil, and in a little time he enjoyed the repose which his exhausted frame required.

He slept till three o'clock, and was then too anxious for the arrival of his father and mother to rest again. Charles attempted to interest him in conversation, and he was interested; but he started at every little noise, and to say the truth, Charles was little less nervous than himself. At length, almost before they could reasonably expect it, they distinctly heard a chaise drive up.

"O, go, go!" cried Monteath. "Go and bring them to me!"

"Not yet," said Charles, firmly. "I will go to them, but they must not see you till I can tell them that you are more calm. Compose yourself, and remember that the best comfort you can give them is to see you tranquil. I will tell them that you have slept, and in a few minutes you shall see them; in the mean time compose yourself."

Charles went down stairs, and the first meeting with Mr and Mrs Monteath was very painful. He was glad, however, to give them some comfort, and he spoke as cheerfully as he could of the night which his friend had passed. Presently he conducted them to their son's chamber, and left them at the door. Mr Everett enquired the particulars of the accident, and the extent of the injury, as far as Charles could judge of it. He shook his head, when he had heard the particulars, and said he feared there was no help for it, but that the leg must be amputated.

"Thinking this would be necessary," he said, "I brought an assistant with me; and I am glad I did, for delay would be dangerous; and I suppose there is no surgeon near. Is your friend prepared for it?"

"Perfectly," replied Charles: "and he thinks the sooner it is done, the better. How soon will it be, Sir?"

"Directly, if it has to be done," replied Mr Everett, "but you know I have not seen him yet, and therefore cannot be sure that it will be necessary."

Mr and Mrs Monteath came down presently, and told Mr Everett that their son wished to see him. Before he went, he told them that he should recommend their trying to get some rest.

"Now that your son has seen you, he will sleep again," said he, "and I wish to remain alone with him for two or three hours. He will not rest if you are beside him, so you must trust him with me, and our young friend will bring you news of him from time to time."

The father and mother were obliged to consent: they retired, and Charles took his station in the next room to his friend. In a few minutes Mr Everett's assistant came out of the chamber, and soon after returned with a servant, and there were signs of preparation which were sickening to poor Charles. He made a great effort to forget himself, however, and gently opening the chamber door, asked if he could be of use.

"You can, Sir, if you think yourself able," replied Mr Everett. "I believe we may trust you, for you are aware of the importance of self-command just now. I advise you to take a glass of wine, and then go and speak to your friend, and we will call you when we want you."

Charles did so.

"Your mother has gone to lie down," he whispered; "by the time she wakes, we shall have comfort to give her, and you will be better able to see her."

Monteath pressed his hand. "I am better than I was," said he; "stronger in mind, too. I do believe I dreaded seeing my mother more than any thing else."

Mr Everett now approached the bed, and in a short time, which, however, appeared to Charles as if it never would be over, the painful thing was done, and Monteath was in bed again. Charles remained beside him, and in an hour the patient was once more in a sound sleep. Mr Everett went then to tell his father and mother what had been done. They were dreadfully agitated at first, but the sight of their son in deep repose calmed them, and every thing was soon so comfortably arranged, that Charles thought his assistance was no longer needed. He went to bed, rested till the middle of the day, and in the afternoon proceeded with Mr Everett to Exeter, the assistant being left behind with the patient, and Mr Everett promising to return the next day but one. Monteath did not know how to express his gratitude, and his parents' acknowledgments were painful to Charles, who felt that in common humanity he could not have done less than he had done. They however thought differently, and were grateful, not only for what he had done, but for the manner of doing it; and felt very sure, that, painful as that night had been to Charles, every recollection of it would bring pleasure as long as he lived. He promised his friend that he would not return to London without seeing him, and then set off, wondering when he thought that his acquaintance with Monteath had been of only twenty-four hours' standing, and that, in that time, he had been called on to perform more painful offices of kindness, than generally devolve upon intimate friends during a connexion of many years.

"At this hour yesterday," thought Charles, "we met for the first time, and now we are perhaps friends for life. It has been proved, by a fiery trial, that Monteath has many virtues. I know, beyond a doubt, that he is religious, that he is attached to his family, that he is considerate to others, that he is courageous and patient. This is a great deal to have learned in twenty-four hours. If I were to consider myself alone, I might rejoice in this accident. I have gained a valuable friend, and received a lesson which I shall never forget, at the expense of only a few hours of salutary pain. But I am the last person to be considered. Better fruits even than these may spring from this calamity, to those who have at present suffered more from it."

The journey with Mr Everett was cheerful and pleasant. Charles had now the opportunity of learning a great deal about his sister Jane; and all that he heard gave him pleasure. His home and its inmates had been forgotten for some hours, but now he began again to anticipate the pleasures of meeting, though with much less confidence than before. At first he felt almost sure that something would yet happen to delay their meeting; but when they were within five miles of the city, he began to recognise some well-known object at every step, and to feel a quieter hope that at length he should reach his journey's end in peace. He started up at the first sight of the Cathedral towers, and gazed at them till he actually passed them. Then he looked for familiar faces, and as the chaise turned the corner into the market-place, a boy looked up from the foot pavement, who, tall as he was, could, Charles was sure, be no other than Alfred. "It is Alfred," said Mr Everett, "going home to tea, I guess. You will find them just sitting down to tea, the lessons all learned, the business all done, and nothing to do but to talk and listen."

The chaise stopped, and Charles was soon on his way home, with his little trunk under his arm. When Hannah answered his knock, she knew him instantly, and started back, calling, "Miss Jane, Miss Jane!"

Miss Jane rose from the tea-table, and she and Charles met at the parlour door. "Charles! my dear, dear Charles! What can have brought you? What are you here for?"

"I am come to see you, my dearest; and you, and you," added he, turning to the others, as they pressed round him. "I am come for a whole fortnight. Now, dearest, I have taken you too much by surprise," for Jane's tears flowed fast. "Come, come, compose yourself. Look up, and smile at me."

Jane hung on his shoulder. He led her to a chair, Isabella seated herself on the other side, and Harriet sprung on his knee. "I should not have startled you so," said Charles, "but I had no time to write, and give you notice. I did not know myself, till a few hours before I left town, that I was coming."

"But how did you come?" asked Isabella. "This is not the time when any of the coaches arrive."

"My dear, I must explain all that by and by: there is a long and sad story connected with that."

"I am glad we knew nothing about your coming," said Alfred; "for the London coach was overturned yesterday, and we should have been afraid that you were in it."

"It was overturned, and there was a man killed," said Charles; but he said no more about it, for he did not feel inclined to enter at once upon that sad subject.

"I am afraid, Jane, I am not come at the pleasantest time for you: your mornings are, I suppose, fully engaged, but we must make long evenings."

"And here is one to begin with," said Jane. "We have you all to ourselves for this evening at least. But how very tired you look! Are you quite well?"

"Perfectly," replied Charles, "I am only tired."

"Come and have some tea," said Isabella. "Let me make tea to-night, Jane, and do you sit beside Charles."

So the happy party gathered round the table, and it would be in vain for us to attempt to follow them through the variety of subjects which they touched upon, or to record half that was said. After tea, Charles went into the kitchen to speak to Hannah, and to delight her by his affectionate remembrance. Then Jane and Harriet had to settle the important affair of where Alfred was to sleep. He was to give up his bed to Charles, and a little bed was made up for him, in a corner of the same room. He declared that he would sleep on the floor rather than that Charles should seek a lodging out of the house.

Late in the evening a note arrived from Mrs Everett: an unusually gracious one for her. It said that, as Miss Forsyth and her brother had not met for so long, Mrs Everett would be sorry to keep them asunder, for the few first days of his stay, especially as Mr C. Forsyth must require cheering and relaxation, after the melancholy circumstances of his journey. Mrs Everett therefore would not require Miss Forsyth to resume her daily charge till the next Monday, and in the mean time wished her much enjoyment of her brother's society.

"How very kind!" exclaimed Jane.

"How perfectly delightful!" said Charles.

"But how should Mrs Everett know that you are here, Charles?" said Isabella. "News must fly faster than I thought it did, if any body has told her that you are come."

"I will explain it all in the morning," said Charles, "it is too long a story to tell now."

"I wish," said Harriet, "we had a holiday till Monday. If the news has got to Mrs Everett's, it might as well spread a little further: just as far as Mrs —'s ears."

"I should like a holiday very well," said Isabella, "but Charles and Jane had rather be alone, I suppose; and I had rather they should, for part of the time."

Charles thanked her by a kiss, for her consideration.

It was with a deep feeling of gratitude and delight that he this evening joined in family worship for the first time for two years. Jane read the Psalm and chapter with a somewhat tremulous voice this evening, and sweet and touching was that voice to her brother's ear, and he deeply felt the words of thanksgiving which were uttered by it. "Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies."

What words could be so apt as these to express thankfulness for the preservation of life, and for the subsequent bestowment of the sweetest blessings which endear it to the pure and uncorrupted heart? Sweet was it also to join with his best friends in a prayer for the continuance of these mercies, and for the blessing of their Giver upon their enjoyment. The weight of sadness which had still pressed upon Charles's mind, and which nothing else had availed to lighten, was now removed by the exercise of prayer, and with a light as well as thankful heart he retired to rest. He awoke from refreshing sleep when Alfred rose the next morning; and when they were assembled at breakfast, he told his promised tale of the extraordinary events of his journey. The name of Monteath was not unknown to the Forsyths, and Jane had seen this very youth at the Everetts' more than once, and knew that he was a great favourite in their family. Charles expressed his intention of calling on his Quaker friend, if he could find him, and also at Mr Monteath's house, to learn if any further account of his friend had arrived. Mr Barker also was to be seen, and plans were to be laid for the employment of the precious days of Charles's stay. Before these were half arranged, it was time for the younger ones to be off to school; and when the brother and sister found themselves really alone, Charles produced Mrs Rathbone's letter, which he rightly judged must be partly on business. It was indeed of considerable importance.

Mrs Rathbone wrote in her husband's name, as well as her own. She said that Jane had probably heard through Mr Barker that they hoped to be of use to Alfred whenever it should be time to think of placing him out: that it was time the boy should have some idea of his future destination, and that his family should know what to look forward to. She went on to say,—

"Mr Rathbone has influence in India, and if Alfred's talents are what we understand them to be, there can be no doubt of his distinguishing himself in the Company's service, and of procuring solid advantages to his family. Our views for him are these. We shall take the charge of his education at the Company's military schools, where he will be qualified for being a military engineer in the forces in India. In five years he will be sent out, and then he will only have to exert himself to get forward, to distinguish himself, and probably to enrich his family, for there are perhaps no other means by which wealth can be so easily acquired. It appears to us that there is no other way in which we can so effectually assist you as this; and few things can give us more pleasure than the anticipation of the time when you will be easy and prosperous, and look back on your present labours and cares as on a long past dream. Alfred will rejoice to promote the prosperity of that kind sister who devoted herself to his welfare when he was too young to repay her cares, and that sister will rejoice in the honour and wealth which his well directed exertions will be the means of conferring on his family.

"As you are all bound together by even closer ties of affection than usually unite those of the same family, it is natural that you should grieve at the prospect of a separation from Alfred of many years. These separations are certainly sad things; but I have too good an opinion of your sense and your self-command to suppose that you will set the gratification of even your dearest and most cherished feelings against the solid interests of the family who depend upon you, and of whom you are the head. This is the only objection to our plan which we anticipate from you, unless it be the consideration of health. But this is a thing so entirely uncertain, so many die at home, and so many sustain the trial of a foreign climate, and live to old age in it, that we cannot foresee and calculate, and therefore should not suffer our plans to be deranged by too much regard to this consideration, but should trust, that, whether at home or abroad, all will be well with those whom we love. You will let us know soon what you think of our plan, and you will make up your mind to part with Alfred at the end of a year from next Midsummer. In the mean time, he had better continue at the school where he now is, and the only direction we have to give is, that he will continue to devote his attention to mathematics. If tolerably advanced in this branch of study, he will set out with the more advantage in his new studies next year.

"We should like to see Alfred, and form our own judgment of him; and for this purpose, and also to afford him some pleasure, we hope you will not object to his spending a fortnight with us in the approaching holidays. Charles will let us know when to expect him, and we will make him as happy as we can. We have chosen the present opportunity of developing our plan to you, as we thought you would like to have Charles by your side to talk to concerning it. Wishing you much enjoyment together, and assuring you of our interest in all your concerns, I am, my dear young friend,—

"Most truly yours,—

"Sarah Rathbone."

Charles and Jane looked at each other when they had finished reading this letter. "Well, Jane," said Charles, "what is your opinion of it?"

"O, Charles, I do not at all like it. But we cannot judge till we have thought about it."

"Let us think about it then," said Charles.—"In the first place, could you part with Alfred for many years, if you were thoroughly convinced that it would be for his good and ours?"

"I could, I hope, if I were convinced of that. But what good could counterbalance all the evils of such a separation to him and us?"

"Let us consider the good first, Jane, and then we will weigh the evil against it. This is not a new idea to me; I had some suspicion of Mr Rathbone's plans, and so I have thought a little about the matter. If Alfred goes, we may have it in our power to repay our friends here the obligations we are under to them now; (I mean, of course, the pecuniary part of the obligation;) and we may be able to place Isabella and Harriet in a situation in society where their talents and virtues may be exercised with as much benefit to others, and without such painful labour and care as will probably be their lot, if, as we have hitherto expected, they have to work for their own subsistence. Are not these real, solid advantages?"

"I believe they are," replied Jane. "And you too—"

"O, I am out of the question just now, and so are you, Jane. We must now forget ourselves, and even each other, if we mean to decide coolly for the good of those who depend on us. Are there any other advantages? Is honour, fame, or whatever else we call it, a good?"

"What kind of honour will it be?" asked Jane. "The honour of bravery, I suppose—a soldier's glory."

"More than that," said Charles. "He may have the reputation of talent, of industry, and of general honourable principle."

"This kind of reputation is valuable in many respects," said Jane; "but it may be had at home as well as in India, better perhaps: for I do not know how to reconcile the rapid acquisition of wealth with honourable principle."

"Nor I," said Charles. "Well, do you reckon this honour an advantage?"

"I think not," said Jane. "I do not desire a mere soldier's glory for any one I love, since it is bought by violence, and must therefore harden the heart: and honour of a better kind may be had, as far as it is desirable, at home."

"I quite agree with you," said Charles. "Then again, the increase of knowledge, and enlargement of mind, which is obtained by travelling, and intercourse with foreign nations, is, in my opinion, a real advantage, though Mrs Rathbone does not mention it. We are not considering how it is counterbalanced; but is it not in itself a good?"

"It is," said Jane; "and now I fancy we have come to the end of the list. For power, influence, high connexions, the ability to exercise beneficence, all come under the heads of wealth and honour: and as to the benefit to Alfred of exerting himself for his family, that also may be had at home, and may be all the more beneficial for the wealth not being got so easily as in India. But health is the grand objection. I do wonder at the way in which Mrs Rathbone speaks of this. She speaks of many who die in England as well as in India: but who does not know the difference in the proportions? And she speaks of trust too, as if foresight and precaution were inconsistent with it."

"And of those who live," said Charles, "how few, if any, return in health! Mr Rathbone himself is rich: but who would take his riches in exchange for the health he has sacrificed?"

"Have we any right to consent to such a probable sacrifice for Alfred?" said Jane.

"Certainly not, in my opinion," said Charles. "But there is another question of greater importance still—Alfred's moral welfare. His early separation from his family would be a sad thing; but not half so fearful as the risk of sending him into the society of the dissolute, or, at best, the careless, where his duty will lie in scenes of bloodshed and devastation, where his employment will be to contrive and execute plans for spreading ruin and wasting life. Can we devote him to an employment like this? Some may represent the matter in a different light, and say that he is promoting the prosperity of his country and the extension of commerce by his services. But I say, let him, if he serves his country, serve it by innocent means; by means reconcileable to the law of God, and to the duty which man owes to man: let him do this, even if he live and die in hardship and poverty, rather than corrupt his mind, and harden his heart, and become such a one as we could not love, though he were to make himself and us as rich and powerful as the most worldly could desire."

"Oh, Charles, if this is all true, who could doubt for a moment? How could Mr Rathbone think of such a plan for a moment?"

"Different people," said Charles, "see things in a different light. Mr Rathbone has not experienced these dangers, because he has made his fortune by commerce, not by war. Besides, I must think Mr Rathbone a very rare instance of the power of principle against temptation. There are few indeed who spend their Indian wealth so generously for others, though every one who goes out with any principle to direct him, hopes that he shall be able to hold a straight course, though almost all others have gone astray. I could not, neither, I am sure, could you, encourage this confidence with respect to Alfred. If he were to be separated from us for five years before he left England, and were to have no prospect of seeing us again for twenty or thirty years, how weak would be the family ties, and how easily chilled the family affection on which we should wish to depend as a safeguard to higher principles! And as to those higher principles, we could have little influence in forming or strengthening them: we must, at the end of one other year, commit them to the care of strangers. How little knowledge we could have of them; how little confidence that they could be firm enough to resist the attacks of temptations, renewed from day to day, under which the strong have sunk, and before which the fortified have given way."

"But Charles, my dear Charles, is this all true? Are you sure there is no mistake? If but one hundredth part were true, I would not hesitate for a moment."

"Ask those who know, dear Jane: let us ask Mr Barker. Let us tell our thoughts to Mr Rathbone himself. This is too important a matter to be decided on our own judgments, without further knowledge; but Mr Barker's knowledge of the fate of many youths who have been sent out to India, will, I believe, lead him to encourage us in declining Mr Rathbone's offer. Whatever we may think of the offer itself, Jane, we must not forget the generosity which has been shewn in making it."

"Certainly," said Jane, "it will be very difficult to express our sense of such kindness; and more so still to decline it: but I hope they will understand and even approve our feeling about it."

The brother and sister then talked over other circumstances connected with their affairs. Charles asked whether any new plan was in view for the girls to earn a little more money. Jane smiled, and said that Isabella had not been idle, but that what she had attempted was yet unfinished, and that if Charles had not visited them, he would have known nothing of the matter till the work was completed. The thing was this: a French lady who had been staying at Mr Everett's in the autumn, had shewn Jane an elegant little French work on plants. A variety of flowers were arranged according to various peculiarities, which had caused them to be adopted as emblems, some of royalty, others of natural or moral qualities, etcetera. There were plates of many of the flowers, some well executed, others very indifferently. It struck Jane at once that Isabella might translate this work, and she borrowed it of the French lady, that they might examine it at home. They thought, on close examination, that the work might be improved in the translation: that various floral emblems might be added, and that drawings, very superior to the plates of the work, might increase its value. When Jane returned the book, she asked its owner whether it had been translated into English. The reply was, that the original work had only been published a few weeks, and could not yet be well known in England. This determined Isabella at once to make the trial. The drawings were the most important and the most difficult part; but by the interest and assistance of a few friends, Isabella obtained access to some excellent botanical works and plates. Many, indeed most of the flowers, she was able to draw from nature during the eight months that the work was in progress; and where the flowers were so rare as to be out of her reach altogether, there was nothing to be done but to copy from the plates of the original work. With the translation she took great pains, and here Jane helped her. Jane had an excellent and well-cultivated taste, and she was therefore well fitted to judge of style, and she assisted Isabella to re-write and polish her translation, till no foreign idiom could be detected, and till there was no trace of the stiffness or poverty which characterises most versions from the French. When this was done, Jane, who wrote a much better hand than Isabella, transcribed it, by degrees, as the drawings were finished, one by one, so that the work was complete as far as it went. At this time, only four drawings and about twelve pages of copying remained to be done, and then it was to try its fate in the hands of a London bookseller.

Charles was delighted with the plan, as Jane described it; but she would not let him see the work till Isabella was present. She said that if it did not answer she should be quite grieved, for that it had been the object of chief interest to Isabella for many months, and she had been unwearied in her application to it during all her leisure hours in that time. They could form no idea of the sum it ought to bring them; but Jane said she would not take less than ten guineas, and she hoped for more. Charles shook his head, and was afraid she expected too much; but he promised to take charge of it when he returned, if it could be finished by that time, and to do all in his power to dispose of it advantageously. He then enquired whether the five guineas which they had already earned remained untouched; and on being told that it was to lie by till they were rich enough to purchase a piano, or till some unforeseen emergency should call it into use, he presented his own five pound note to Jane to add to the little fund.

Jane was most unwilling to receive the fruits of his labour and self-denial; but she knew that he spoke the truth when he said that no other use to which he could apply it would give him half so much pleasure. It gave him pleasure, he said, to think that they had a little sum of their own to go to, instead of having to apply to their friends in case of sickness, family mourning, or any other incidental expense likely to occur in a family consisting of several members, and widely, though distantly, connected with many more. "It is not being over-prudent, Jane; it is not being worldly-minded, I hope, to think in this way, is it?"

"I think not," replied Jane. "I am often afraid of becoming so, I assure you, and I try to keep this fear in mind from day to day. At present, however, we have been led on so easily, our path has been so smoothed for us, that it seems hardly possible that we should be unmindful who it is that has disposed all things for us. Now I am reminded, day by day, how grateful I ought to be: if I become worldly, it will more probably be when I have greater labours and anxieties to undergo. If we can meet in this way, dear Charles, from time to time, it will be as strong a safeguard against worldliness as we can have."

In the course of the morning Charles called on his Quaker travelling companion, and gave him an account of the night which he had passed with poor Monteath, and of the circumstances under which he had left his charge. The excellent man was much interested, and said he wished that he could himself have remained, and saved Charles the pain of these anxious hours.

"My wife," said he, "was saved much fear by my speedy arrival, I hope thy friends had no fear for thee?"

"My sisters," replied Charles, "were not aware of my journey, as it fortunately happened."

"And thy father and mother: hadst thou not a father and mother to await thy arrival?"

Charles shortly explained his family circumstances.

"Thy sister must have a strong mind, like thine, to conduct a household, and to employ herself in another responsible situation also; considering that she is yet young. Thou wilt come again?" said he, seeing that Charles was preparing to depart, "thou wilt come again? Uncommon circumstances have made us acquainted, and I should be unwilling to discontinue our acquaintance, as it may be pleasant to both of us."

Charles promised to call again.

"My wife, as I told thee, is ill," said Mr Franklin, (for that was his name,) "and therefore cannot go to see thy sister; but if thou wilt take thy tea with us to-morrow, and if thy sister will disregard ceremony, and come with thee, we shall be glad."

Charles accepted the invitation with great pleasure, as he thought that this respectable family might prove pleasant and valuable friends to Jane.

He next called on Mr Barker, who was not a little astonished at the sight of him. Charles told him that Jane and he were anxious to have his advice on the important subject of Mrs Rathbone's letter. Mr Barker promised to devote the first leisure time he had to them. Charles next called at Mr Monteath's door, to enquire concerning his friend; but no account had arrived, or was expected before the evening.

When the messenger arrived, he brought a favourable report. The patient was easy, and all was going on right. He sent, by his mother's letter, an affectionate message to Charles, and said, he hoped by the time his father returned to Exeter to be able to write a note himself to his friend.

Mr Barker called in the evening to see Mrs Rathbone's letter respecting Alfred, and to consult with Jane and her brother on the subject. They plainly told him their feelings upon it, their dislike to the military profession, especially.

Mr Barker was silent, and looked thoughtful.

"Are we wrong, Sir?" asked Charles. "Have we got high-flown or mistaken notions about this? or is it presumptuous in us, who are so poor, and under great obligations, to affect a choice for our brother?"

"No, my dear boy; none of these. I was silent because I was thinking of a sad story, and wondering whether I should tell it you. Have you quite made up your minds to reject Mr Rathbone's offer?"

"That depends on your opinion," said Jane. "If you shew us that Charles's ideas of the hazard and probable misery of such a destination, are mistaken, we must deliberate further: but if what I have heard be true, I would as soon see Alfred in his coffin as incur so fearful a responsibility."

"I think what Charles has said is all true: but, my dears, you must prepare yourselves for something which will be to you very terrible."

"Mr Rathbone's displeasure," said Charles. "I feared that: but grateful as we are and ought to be for his most disinterested generosity to us, we ought to look on his gifts as curses, if they take from us the liberty of unbiassed choice, where the moral welfare of a brother is in question."

"Say so in your reply to him, Charles."

"But it may be," said Jane, "that he will not be displeased. We take for granted much too readily, I think, that he will misunderstand us."

"Mr Rathbone's temper is peculiar," replied Mr Barker. "A somewhat haughty spirit was rendered imperious by the power and rank he possessed in India. Considering this, it is wonderful that he should retain so generous a disposition as his is; but every one knows, and Charles himself must have observed, that he cannot bear to be opposed, especially in any scheme of benevolence."

Jane sighed. "At any rate," said she, "he cannot prevent our being grateful for what he has done, and for his present kind intentions. It is hard to be obliged to estrange such a friend, but it would be harder still to devote Alfred to danger, and to temptations stronger than we dare encounter ourselves."

"The estrangement will not be your work, but his own, Jane: that is, if you write such a letter as I expect you will. Do not let your fear of offending cramp your expression. Speak your gratitude freely, and also your resolution of independence. Write as freely as you have been speaking to me."

"May I shew you my letter, Sir, and have your opinion of it?" asked Jane.

"By all means," replied Mr Barker, "and the sooner it is done the better."

"We have been saved much pain," said Charles, "by your entire agreement with us. I thought you would think as we did; but yet it is generally believed a very fine thing to get a young man out to India."

"It is," said Mr Barker: "and in my young days a brother of my own was sacrificed to this mistaken belief. So you will not wonder that I view the matter in the same light as you do. It is a very common story. He left home as good and promising a youth as could be, but too young. Fine visions of wealth and grandeur floated before him: poor fellow! he desired them more for his family than for himself when he set out on his career; but his affections gradually cooled as time rolled on, and the prospect of seeing his home again was still very distant. As he thought less of his family he thought more of himself, and gave more and more into habits of self-indulgence. He got money very fast, and occasionally sent some home, but squandered much more on his own pleasures. Then, as might be expected, his health failed: he dragged on a miserable existence for many months, till an attack of illness, which would formerly have been overcome in two days' time, carried him off, a feeble and unresisting prey. He was thought to have left a large property, but it could never be got at; and I have heard my poor father say that he was glad we never had a farthing of it, for it would have seemed to him the price of blood. It was a mistake, however, and only a mistake; for his welfare was the object of his parents: but it was a mistake whose consequences weighed them down with sorrow to their dying days."

After Mr Barker was gone, this little family gathered together to close the day with an hour of pleasant intercourse. Isabella's work was produced, and extremely did Charles admire it. "Will it bring her ten guineas?" asked Jane.

"Twenty, or nothing," said Charles. "Only, I am no judge of these things. You must get it done for me to take back with me, Isabella."

Isabella thought it was impossible she could have earned twenty guineas so easily. Not very easily, Charles thought: the leisure hours of eight months had been spent upon this, and great efforts of perseverance and resolution had been required. Add to this, the uncertainty and delay and hazard which she yet had to encounter, and he thought that twenty guineas was no more than a sufficient recompense. He told her that all would not be over when the work was finished, but that she might have to wait many months before she knew its fate, and it was even very possible that it might remain on her hands. Isabella, however, had made up her mind to be patient and to hope for the best.

When they separated for the night, Jane whispered to her brother,—"Yes, we will keep together and be happy. Better is poverty in this house, than wealth in India." Charles kissed her in sign of agreement.

The next morning Jane sat down to write her letter, with her brother by her side. He approved the simple account which she gave of their feelings and opinions upon the important matter, and made her add, that she and her brother had the sanction of Mr Barker's experienced judgment. Mr Barker had given her permission to say this, and when Charles shewed him the letter, he approved the whole of it, and it was therefore sealed and dispatched. Jane endeavoured to forget her fears about the answer, and determined to bear it patiently, whatever it might be, knowing that she had acted to the best of her judgment. During the walk which she afterwards took with her brother she forget this subject and every other, for he told her over again, and more completely, the history of the night he had passed with poor Monteath. On their return home they made enquiry again at Mr Monteath's door, and heard that the young man was going on so well, that his father would return to Exeter in two days.

Charles heard from Mr Franklin that evening some further particulars respecting Monteath's family, and respecting himself. He was in business with his father, and had lately become a partner. They were not supposed to be rich, but were universally esteemed for their integrity. There were several sisters, one older, and the rest younger than their brother; but he was the only brother, and the pride and delight of the family. The good Quaker was evidently affected when he spoke of the sorrow which this sad accident had brought among them, and yet more when he spoke of an attachment which was supposed to exist between Monteath and a young lady who was at present staying with his sisters. Mr Franklin had been at the house that morning, and the young ladies had expressed in strong terms their gratitude to Charles, and the desire they had to see this friend of their brother. When their father returned they hoped to be able to shew that they were not insensible and ungrateful. Mr Franklin told them that Charles was to be at his house that evening, and he promised to take him to call, if he would be induced to go. Charles only thought himself too much honoured for what he believed any one of common humanity would have done in his circumstances, and he accordingly left Jane with Mrs Franklin, and accompanied his friend to Mr Monteath's. He saw the two eldest ladies, but not their friend, which he was glad of, for he would have found himself tongue-tied before her.

The wish of the young ladies was to learn, as distinctly as possible, every thing that passed on that terrible night; and Charles related, with perfect simplicity, every circumstance, except one or two, which he thought would affect their feelings too deeply. He could not help expressing his admiration of the rational and manly courage with which his friend had met so sudden a misfortune.

"We were not surprised at this," said his sister: "we always believed that our brother's strength of mind would prove equal to any occasion, however he might be tried."

"And now," replied Charles, "it has been proved that you were right; and you have the comfort of knowing that he is equal to any trial, for none can now befall him more sudden and more terrible."

"No, indeed," replied Miss Monteath; and she passed her hand over her eyes, as if the thoughts of her brother's misfortune were too painful to be borne.

"I mean," continued Charles, "more terrible at the time: for though you will not now be inclined to agree with me perhaps, I do not think it will prove a very great lasting misfortune. I have known many instances of similar deprivations, where usefulness and activity have been very little if at all impaired."

Miss Monteath shook her head.

"I incline to think that my young friend is right," said Mr Franklin. "I believe that the worst is over with thy brother and with his friends. When he becomes accustomed to his new feelings, when he finds that art affords valuable helps to repair an accident like this, when he finds that he can pursue his usual employments without impediment, and that the affection of his friends, especially of the nearest and dearest, is enhanced by sympathy and approbation, I will even say admiration, dost thou not think that he will be happy? I think he may be quite as happy as he has ever been."

"There is one thing more that you have not mentioned," said Miss Monteath, "the acquisition of a new friend."

"True," said the Quaker, "of a friend whose faithfulness was singularly proved during the first hours of intercourse."

Charles became anxious to change the subject, and asked Miss Monteath whether she had any idea how soon her brother would be able to return home.

"Not for five or six weeks at the soonest," she said; and, after a few more enquiries, Charles rose to take his leave.

Meantime, Jane had enjoyed a very pleasant hour with Mrs Franklin. This good lady expressed some fear lest Jane should think her impertinent; but she was really so much interested in her situation and circumstances, that she could not help informing herself, as fully as her young friend would allow, of their manner of living. Jane made no mysteries, for she was well enough acquainted with Mrs Franklin's character to be very sure that it was not idle curiosity which made her take so deep an interest in herself and her brothers and sisters. Mrs Franklin ended by saying, "When I am well, I will come and see thee; but in the mean time, thou wilt bring thy sisters here, I hope. I wish to see them, and we have some fine prints, which will perhaps please Isabella, as she likes such things."

Charles and Jane congratulated each other, as soon as they were alone, on the acquisition of such friends as the Franklins appeared inclined to be.

The following week passed away happily and quietly. The only remarkable circumstance which occurred was a call from Mr Monteath and his daughter. Jane was gratified by this mark of attention from Miss Monteath, and Charles was no less pleased by receiving a short note from his friend. It was as follows.

"My dear Friend,—

"It is with some difficulty that I have obtained permission to write a few lines to you. The purpose of them is to entreat you to spend a day or two with me on your return to London, if you can spare the time to one who has so slight a claim in comparison with your family. On many accounts I wish to see you; but especially that I may express something of the gratitude and friendship which I feel, but cannot write, and which will remain a weight on my mind, unless you will come to me. Do give me the greatest pleasure I can now enjoy. I hope I am not selfish in urging it. Farewell.

"Ever your grateful friend,—

"Henry Monteath."

Charles had pledged himself to be in London by Wednesday; and he therefore determined to leave Exeter on the Monday morning, and to spend the half of Monday and Tuesday with his friend. His sisters were grieved to lose a whole day of his society, but they made no opposition to his plan, ready, as they always were, to give up their own wishes when the sacrifice was required. Isabella worked hard to finish her little book; too hard, Jane feared, for she did not look well, and was obliged to acknowledge frequently that her head ached. On the Saturday she set to work as soon as she returned from school, and was busy at the last drawing all the afternoon. She completed it just before dark, and her brother and sisters heartily congratulated her on having put the finishing stroke to her work: but she seemed to feel little pleasure; and as she was putting away her pencils, Jane observed that her hand shook violently, and that her face was flushed. Charles gently reproached her for her too anxious diligence; and she owned that she felt very unwell, but she did not think it owing to her laborious application. Jane urged her to go to bed; but she would not consent to lose so many hours of Charles's society, and she persisted in sitting up to tea. She was however unable to eat, and her headache became so violent, and was accompanied with so overpowering a sickness, that she could hold up no longer, and was conveyed to her bed. Jane was very uneasy, but Isabella and Hannah both thought it might be a common sick headache, and persuaded Jane not to send for Mr Everett that night.

At bed-time she was very feverish, and passed a miserable night, and when Jane went to her bedside at four o'clock the next morning, she was terrified to find her slightly delirious. Of course she remained with Isabella, and before breakfast-time she sent to request Mr Everett's attendance, as soon as convenient. At six o'clock she gave her patient some tea, and then Isabella spoke sensibly again; but she was restless, and suffering much from headache.

This was sad news for Charles when he came down to breakfast; and this last day with his sisters promised to be but a melancholy one. Mr Everett came early, and he was most anxiously questioned about his patient. He said that she was extremely unwell certainly; but whether it would prove a short and sharp attack of fever, or an illness of more serious consequence, he could not at present tell. He advised that no one should go into her room except Jane and Hannah, till they could be quite sure that there was no fear of infection. He desired Jane not to think of resuming her employments at his house for a week at least, both because it would be too painful to her to leave her sister, and because he had rather ascertain the nature of the disorder, before he exposed his children to the least risk of infection. This did not serve to make poor Jane less anxious. She sat by Isabella's bedside, trying to keep down melancholy thoughts, while Charles took Harriet and Alfred to church. The whole of the day was spent with them, and he scarcely saw Jane at all. In the dusk of the evening, he was sitting by the parlour window, talking to his little brother and sister, when he saw the postman come up to the door. The arrival of a letter was a rare occurrence, and the first idea which entered Charles's mind was that perhaps a further leave of absence had come to cheer him and Jane, when certainly such a comfort would be most welcome. But his heart sunk when he saw Mr Rathbone's hand-writing on the letter which Hannah brought in. He reproached himself for his ill-bodings as they arose, and he asked himself why he dreaded a communication from one who had been the kindest of friends to him, and he anticipated the shame he should feel if, as was very likely, the letter should contain nothing but kindness. He requested Hannah to bring candles, and then to sit with Isabella, while Jane came down to read her letter, for it was addressed to her. Jane opened it with a trembling hand, and Charles at once guessed its contents when he saw it consisted of only a few lines. He caught it as it fell from his sister's hand, and read as follows:

"Mr Rathbone is sorry that he was prevented by an unavoidable accident from opening Miss Forsyth's letter till yesterday. Mr R. would have rejoiced to afford substantial assistance to the children of an old friend; but they who can set the romantic whims of unformed judgments against the knowledge and experience of a friend who has passed a long life in the world, prove themselves incapable of being guided by advice, and of profiting by well-meant and willing kindness. Mr R. has therefore only to regret that he can be of no further service, and to hope that Mr and Miss Forsyth will meet with other friends, and will know better how to value and retain them."

Jane had hid her face in her hands, and was sobbing violently, while Charles read the letter.

He was almost choked with emotion.

"My poor Jane," he exclaimed, as he hung over her, "that this cruel letter should have come just now, of all times. What a heart must that man have who could write to you in such a way. I wish he could see you now, that he might repent it as he ought to do."

"O Charles!" said Jane, "remember all his kindness to us."

"Remember it!" cried he, "it will stick in my throat as long as I live. O that I could send him back his bank-notes and his presents, and be free of all obligation!"

"Nay, dear Charles, do not let us be ungrateful because he is hasty. His former kindness is not the less noble because of the present misunderstanding. We must be neither ungrateful nor proud."

"It is plain enough that he never saw you, Jane, or he would have blushed to insult such a nature as yours. I wish he could hear you speaking of his kindness just when it is most painful to remember it: he would feel how little he understands you."

"Never mind what he thinks of me," said Jane, raising her head and attempting to smile. She saw that poor Harriet was in tears, and that Alfred was standing beside her chair with a look of deep concern. They both felt that all seemed to go wrong with them this day, though they knew not the cause of their sister's unaccustomed tears.

Jane threw her arm round Alfred's neck and kissed him again and again. "Never mind," she said again, "what Mr Rathbone thinks of us: we have Alfred safe; we have not sacrificed him; we have done what we think is best for our happiness; and shall we not willingly abide by our choice?"

"Surely we will," replied her brother, "and willingly pay the price of our independence, though it be a heavy one."

"It is a heavy one, indeed," said Jane. "I grieve for you the most, Charles. We can go on living as we have lived, and be only reminded that we once had such a friend by the proofs of his kindness which we see every day. But it is hard upon you, separated from your family as you are, to lose your only friend in London."

"Do not think about that, Jane; I have friends, and can make more. If you are able to get over this pretty easily, we need only be sorry for Mr Rathbone: it must give him great pain to think us really ungrateful. Harriet, dear, come and tell me what is the matter. What makes you cry so?"

"Because you are going away, Charles; and Isabella is ill; and Jane cried so; I am sure something is the matter."

"But Isabella will be better to-morrow perhaps, and Jane is not unhappy now; look at her, she is not crying now. Go and kiss her."

"All will come right again soon, I dare say," said Jane. "Charles will come again some time when we are all well."

"And I shall not go to-morrow now," said Charles. "I cannot leave you so full of care."

"O, Charles! you will, you must go," said Jane. "You have promised, and you must go."

"I could not tell when I promised, that Isabella would be ill, and you so anxious. I cannot turn my back on you at such a time."

"You can do us no good, if you stay, indeed. I must be with Isabella, and Harriet and Alfred will be at school; so you would be of no use, and it would make me uncomfortable to think you were breaking your promise. O, indeed, Charles, this is mistaken kindness."

Charles did not know what to think: he proposed to consult Mr Barker.

"Do," said Jane, "he will tell us what is right."

Charles put on his hat.

"I wonder whether we shall see you again?" said Alfred. "Harriet and I are going to bed presently."

Charles kissed them tenderly. "I dare say I shall see you at breakfast to-morrow," said he: "if not, you will remember all the better what I have been saying to you this evening. You will be grown and altered much before I see you again. I hope I shall be able to love you then as well as I do now, or even better."

Mr Barker was much concerned to hear Charles's little tale of anxieties. He advised him, however, to adhere to his promise respecting his return to London. Charles acquiesced at once in the decision of his friend, and was relieved by the kind promises he received that his sisters should be watched over with as much care as if their brother were beside them; especially that Jane should not be allowed to try her strength too much, in case of Isabella's illness proving long or dangerous. Charles with much emotion bid farewell to his good friend, who said, "I cannot do for you what Mr Rathbone would have done: but you may depend on me as a sure friend at least. I hope, for his own sake, that he will come round again: in the mean time we must be more sorry than angry."

"I was angry," said Charles, "but Jane made me ashamed of myself: she is as grateful to him as ever, and I will try to remember only his past generosity."

"Jane is a good girl, and will be made all the better by these rubs," said Mr Barker. "However, we will smooth things for her as well as we can."

Charles called at Mr Monteath's to say farewell, and to take a parcel from the young ladies to their brother. He said nothing about his sisters, as he knew Jane had rather be left in quietness, than have her attention to her patient interrupted, even by the kind enquiries of friends. Mr Monteath took down Charles's address, and said he hoped to call on him in London before long; and he earnestly desired that any of the family would apply to him in any case where his advice or assistance could be of service.

As Charles went home he thought with pleasure how his circle of friends appeared to be widening. He who was poor, and could only do good by seizing accidental occasions, he who had, in his own opinion, nothing to recommend him to the notice of his superiors, had gained friends whose present kindness was delightful to him, and on the steadiness of whose regard there was every reason to rely. He and his sister agreed, before they separated for the night, that, though they had some cares, they had peculiar blessings; that, though one friend was unhappily estranged, new and valuable supports were gained: and that valuable as these supports were, there was One infinitely more precious, whose love no error can overcloud, no repented sin alienate; who in sorrow draws yet nearer than in gladness, and sheds his own peace over the hearts which humble themselves under his chastening hand.

It had been arranged that Hannah should sit up with Isabella for the first half of the night, and that Jane should take her place at three o'clock in the morning: as by this means she might see Charles before his departure at five o'clock.

Mr Everett had called again in the evening. He saw no signs of improvement in his patient, and was sorry to observe the great reduction of strength which had taken place within a few hours. He was now pretty sure that the fever would prove a serious one. What he said had given Jane no comfort; but she endeavoured to brace up her mind to meet her cares, and she found, as most in her situation do find, that her strength proved equal to her trial. In a melancholy, but not a restless state of mind, she laid her head on her pillow, and having enjoyed the relief of expressing her cares and fears to Him who alone could remove them, she fell asleep, and continued so, till Hannah called her at four o'clock, instead of three, as she had been desired. Jane afterwards asked her the reason, and good Hannah declared that she could not find in her heart to disturb so refreshing a repose, till it was time to call Mr Charles also.

"Thank you, Hannah," said Jane; "but the next time we divide the night, I must take the first half, and you the last."

Isabella had slept but little, and though not delirious, was restless and uncomfortable. Her mind was full of Charles's departure, and of her wish to see him again. She even wished to get up and meet him at the room door, if Jane would not allow him to breathe the air of the sick chamber. Jane was more prudent, however, than to expose Charles to the risk of infection, and she brought Isabella to be content with a cheerful message of love, which she knew Charles would send. Charles was yet more grieved than his poor sister to depart without exchanging a word or a kiss; for he could not keep off the thought that he might perhaps see her no more. There was no knowing; she might perhaps be no nearer death than the others; but it was a great grief to leave her so ill, and without saying farewell. He sent her a note, however, and promised to write frequently to her, and with this she was obliged to be satisfied.

Never had poor Jane felt the trial of separation so much: the trial itself was greater, and she had no liberty to indulge her feelings. She could not leave Isabella, and she could not give way to tears before her, nor even speak to her of her sorrow. She smiled and spoke cheerfully, though her heart was heavier than it had ever been. Charles was not much happier; but they had both the consciousness of being useful to cheer them, and Charles really expected much pleasure from intercourse with Henry Monteath. He arrived at the well-known public-house by breakfast-time: he had recognised the very spot on the road where the coach was upset, and was himself surprised at the involuntary shudder which the sight of it caused.

Mrs Monteath met him on the stairs, and welcomed him kindly. She said that her son was impatient to see him, and would be on his sofa, and prepared for a long day of pleasure, by the time Charles had finished his breakfast. In the mean time she conveyed to Henry the parcel which Charles had brought from the young ladies.

In answer to his very anxious enquiries, Mrs Monteath said that her son's recovery had been as favourable as possible: this was partly owing to the cheerful state of his mind, of which, she said, Charles would be able to judge when he conversed with him. She said she was surprised every day to find how easy she herself was: but she supposed that the pleasure of witnessing his daily progress, made her unmindful of what her son had gone through, and of the trials and deprivations he yet had to encounter. Charles thought this a very natural and happy thing, and he told Mrs Monteath, what he himself believed, that these deprivations would be much less formidable in reality than in anticipation. Mrs Monteath was an anxious mother, and she asked Charles many particulars about her family: how they were in health and spirits; how they spoke respecting their brother; and many other things. Charles told her all that had passed the evening before, during his visit, and observed that when he mentioned Miss Auchinvole, the friend of the young ladies, Mrs Monteath's countenance expressed peculiar interest. Charles had not much to say about her, for she had scarcely spoken, but he could not help saying how much he had been struck by her appearance and manner. She looked pale and anxious, but she smiled occasionally; and there was a sweetness in that smile which Charles thought must make its way to any heart. He freely told Mrs Monteath what he thought, and far as he was from wishing to learn from her manner any family secrets, he could not help believing from the tears which rose to her eyes, and the mournful smile with which she listened to the praises of Margaret Auchinvole, that the friendship between her and Henry Monteath was of a dearer nature than that in which his sisters bore their part. Charles earnestly hoped that this might be the case, and that when restored to health, a happiness, to which this accident need, he thought, oppose no impediment, might be in store for his friend.

Charles observed that there was much more appearance of comfort in the little parlour now than when he saw it before. Mrs Monteath told him that the people of the house were willing and obliging, and that she had contrived by various means to collect comforts round them, and to make their two rooms fit for the accommodation of an invalid, in preference to hazarding a removal, which might have been dangerous, and which her son dreaded more than any thing. She hoped in another week to remove him to lodgings in a farm-house, about four miles off, and in a month or five weeks to take him home.

When Charles entered Monteath's chamber, he saw him lying on his sofa, looking very pale and weak, but with a cheerful countenance. He eagerly held out his hand to Charles, and welcomed him with a smile and words of great kindness. Mrs Monteath left them together.

"I rejoice to see you so much better and happier than when I left you," said Charles.

"Much better and much happier," replied he. "I am glad that you have seen me again; for I am sure all your thoughts of me must have been melancholy thoughts; and I wish that my friend should see me in other hours than those of weakness and misery."

"So far from having none but melancholy thoughts about you," said Charles, "I have been drawing a very fine picture of your future usefulness and happiness, for your sisters' consolation."

"And did they believe you?"

"I hope so, for I am sure I said nothing unreasonable."

"And did they all hear you?"

"No, only two of them that evening. Last night, however, I saw the whole party, and they were all well and happy, as I dare say they have told you themselves."

"They have. When we get to our lodgings in the country next week, some of them will come to us. Much as I long to see them, I almost dread stirring."

"O you will recover much faster when you are in quiet, and when you can go out every day. You can hardly feel here the delight of returning health. I know from experience that the first sight of the face of nature, in a season like this, after days and weeks of illness, is one of the most exquisite pleasures that life can afford."

"I believe it," said Monteath. "I expect to enjoy it much; though, with me, all cares will not be over when health returns. I have already made up my mind to every thing, however, and am determined to make the best of my lot. It is astonishing how soon one's mind becomes reconciled to circumstances. At this hour, a fortnight ago, I should have shuddered at the very thoughts of what I have yet to go through: but I am pretty well reconciled to it now, and do not see why I should not be tolerably happy. To be sure, this fortnight has seemed longer than any year of my life before."

"I do not see," said Charles, "why you should not be very happy, when you have once got into the round of your occupations again. In the mean time you will meet with some painful circumstances no doubt; but then you have consolations which have supported you in a far worse trial than any you are likely to meet with again."

"True; those consolations are worth any thing: it makes me quite ashamed to set my fears and troubles in opposition to such comforts."

"If it is not painful to you," said Charles, "I should like to know what your fears and troubles are; and perhaps by bringing yourself to speak frankly of them, you may find that your imagination has magnified them."

"It is selfish to talk so much about myself," replied Monteath.

"I came on purpose to hear you," said Charles, "and nothing can interest me so much."

"Well, then," said Monteath, "I have been thinking how far my usual pursuits will be hindered by this accident. I am afraid that my father will not allow me to take on myself, as I used to do, the most laborious part of our business concerns. I have, to be sure, spent a great part of my time in the counting-house; but there is a great deal of active business to be done besides, and journeys to be performed; and I am afraid that my father will take more upon him than at his age he can do without fatigue."

"I do not see," said Charles, "why you should not be almost as active as you have ever been; and as to journeys, unless this accident has made a coward of you, which I do not believe, you seem to me just as able to take them as ever. If not, it is no difficult matter to procure a traveller. Depend upon it, your father will spare himself for his children's sake. So you see business may go on as well as ever. Now for pleasure. Do you keep a horse?"

"No, but I mean to do it now; that is no difficulty. There is one more, which I am almost ashamed to mention; but I will. I never could bear to be conspicuous, to be unlike other people, to attract notice; in short, to be stared at."

"Do not be ashamed of feeling that," said Charles: "in my opinion, this is the worst evil of all."

"Is it, really?" said Monteath. "Worse than having one's usefulness and independence impaired?"

"No," replied Charles. "But I see no reason why your usefulness and independence should be impaired. If you had lost an arm, the case would have been different: but art affords such helps in your case, that it is only on occasions of extraordinary danger that you would not be able to exert yourself as well as ever."

"I hope you are right," replied Monteath. "You think, then, that I am not wrong to dread being made an object of curiosity for the first time in my life?"

"I do not wonder at it, certainly," said Charles: "but, remember, it will be only a temporary inconvenience: your acquaintance will soon get accustomed to the sight of you; and, if you will condescend to take pains at first with your manner of walking, there will be nothing remarkable in your appearance. I conclude you will throw aside your crutches as soon as you can?"

"Of course," replied Monteath. "You will see me in London for that purpose as soon as I am allowed to go. Now do you think me weak for dwelling on these trifles, as some people call them?"

"Trifles they are not," said Charles: "and therefore it is any thing but weakness to bring them out, to face them, and make up your mind how they are to be met. In my opinion, a great deal of mischief is done by calling these things trifles, and putting them out of sight as fast as possible, instead of affording that help to those who suffer under them which is largely dispensed on occasions which have not nearly so great an effect on happiness."

"That is exactly what I have often thought lately," said Monteath. "In how many books, where the loss of fortune is described, the minutest difficulties which such a loss occasions are detailed at length! but if, as seldom happens, the loss of a limb is mentioned, we never get beyond the first part of the story, and the little daily difficulties and privations, which are of more importance than the lesser evils of poverty, are quite left out of sight. I imagine there are some ideas of ridicule attached to them."

"Perhaps so," replied Charles; "but such associations are false, and ought to be broken through. Blindness is frequently made interesting in books: deafness seldom or never. There are interesting and poetical associations connected with blindness; ridiculous, low, or common ones only with deafness. A blind heroine is charming; but would not all the world laugh at the very idea of a deaf one? And yet this seems to me unjust: for I question whether, in daily life, both would not have an equal chance of appearing ridiculous on some occasions, and interesting on others."

"Do you mean partial or total blindness and deafness? A heroine totally blind is certainly thought more interesting than one partially deaf: but would not a deaf and dumb person make a better figure than one extremely short-sighted?"

Charles laughed. "They are both as far from picturesque as need be, certainly," said he: "but still I think blindness has the advantage in exciting interest."

"Well," said Monteath, "nobody is likely to make a hero of me. I am in no danger of finding my own likeness in a novel or on the stage."

"No," replied Charles, "nor yet in books of any other kind. If you had lost a friend or your fortune, you might find the most exact directions how to comfort yourself, and plenty of medicine of the soul to suit your particular case. As it is, you must look in books for general consolation, and elsewhere for what more you may need."

"This is no desperate condition to be in either," said Monteath. "I think I could do without the general consolations you speak of. I have been on my sofa here this fortnight, with only one book (which of course you mean to except) and my own mind to draw consolation from, and I have found enough for my need. I expect, however, to be in greater need hereafter."

"Surely not," said Charles. "Surely you have gone through the worst!"

"I know not," said Monteath. "The colour of my whole future life has perhaps been changed by this accident; and I must expect this conviction to come upon me painfully from time to time."

"What do you mean?" said Charles. "The whole colour of your future life! You surely do not mean that you will not marry?"

"That is what I was thinking of, certainly," said Henry, in a very low voice.

"My dear friend," said Charles, "this is the scruple of a sick man's brain. Put it out of your head for the present, I advise you, and I will answer for it that, six months hence, you will feel very differently. The woman would but little deserve you who could raise such an objection; and you have just as much power now as ever to make a wife happy."

Charles wished to turn the conversation, for he saw that his friend was agitated; but he could think of nothing to say at the moment, except about Miss Auchinvole, and that was the only subject which would not do. At length he said, "You must not let me weary you with talking. You know I cannot tell what you are equal to, and Mrs Monteath will never forgive me if I set you back in the least. Had I not better leave you?"

"O no! do not go!" said Monteath; "you do not know how strong I am. I shall sleep in the afternoon, but I hope to have you with me all day besides. I do not scruple saying so, for I cannot conceive that you will find amusement elsewhere in a place like this."

"If I could," said Charles, "I am not much inclined for it to-day. Conversation with a friend is a great cordial in times of anxiety, and I own that I am anxious now."

He said this for the purpose of drawing his friend's attention from a subject which appeared to agitate him too much. Charles was not wrong in expecting his ready sympathy. Isabella's illness was mentioned, and Monteath forgot himself in his anxiety for Charles. He asked many questions about the girls and Alfred.

"How old is Alfred?"

"Nearly eleven."

"What do you intend him for?"

"We have no present intentions about his future destination," said Charles. "He will remain at school till he is fifteen; so we need be in no hurry about it."

"Then your sister will continue on her present plan till that time?"

"Yes," replied Charles; "for Harriet will not be old enough to go out before five years from this time. Isabella wishes to be independent in two years, and I think she will be well qualified; but it will be a grievous thing to Jane to part with her."

"It must, indeed," said Monteath. "You know I have seen your sister Jane, more than once, and she fixed my attention immediately by the way in which she managed those spoiled children of Mrs Everett's. Nobody ever had any control over them but your sister; but they are in much better order than they used to be."

"It gives Jane much satisfaction to think so," said Charles.

"But it must be very discouraging work," said Monteath, "to do her best for them, for half of every day, and to be obliged to surrender them to be spoiled for the other half."

"I should find it so," replied Charles: "but Jane makes as little as possible of discouragements. Her temper used to be an anxious one too: but she has had so much to do and to bear, that she has learned not to look from side to side in hope or fear, but to go on, straight forwards, in the road of duty, whether an easy one or not."

"She is an enviable person then," said Monteath.

"All things are by comparison," said Charles, rather confused when he recollected what he had said about his sister. "I do not mean that she never flags: I was only speaking of her in comparison with myself, and with her former self."

"Nothing but religious principle could enable her to do this," said Monteath. "This is the secret of her superiority, is it not? Without this her trials would have produced depression, instead of renewed energy."

"Certainly," replied Charles. "There are many who pity her under her weight of cares, and who are grieved when they think that she is an orphan, and that she has more arduous duties to perform than many can get through under the guidance and with the assistance of parents or experienced friends. But Jane knows that she is guided, though invisibly, by the best and wisest of Parents, and the Bible is to her as His manifest presence: she has recourse to it on all occasions of difficulty, and can never want confidence or feel forlorn, while such a director is at hand."

"Those whose reason is matured enough, and whose religious affections are cultivated enough to attach their heart and soul to such a guide, may well do without other support," said Monteath. "'The integrity of the upright shall guide them!' But there are few of your sister's age who are thus advanced in the ways of wisdom."

"If so," said Charles, "her superiority is to be ascribed to the peculiar circumstances in which the Father of her spirit has placed her. And, surely, trials which produce such an effect should be endured with submission and remembered with gratitude."

"That comes home to my conscience," said Monteath: "I am now under trial, and such ought to be its effect upon me. But your sister's circumstances have been such as to draw her attention from herself, to carry out her affections and fix them on various objects: but I am afraid the direct tendency of personal suffering is to produce selfishness."

"It may either do that or the reverse, I believe," said Charles: "I have known instances of both. I have heard of a cousin of my mother's, who was a cripple from disease. She passed through life very quietly. She never complained of her deprivations: her temper was placid, and she found employment for her cultivated intellect in studies of various kinds: but nobody was ever the better for them. She did no good, though she never did any harm: she never seemed to love any one person more than another, and of course nobody was particularly attached to her. She lived to the age of sixty, and went on with her own pursuits to the very last, but she left no trace behind her of beneficent deeds, and she lived in the memory and not in the affections of those around her. I have always grieved over the wasted talents of this lady. Half her learning communicated to those less informed than herself, half her time (of which she had abundance) devoted to the assistance of her neighbours, half her affections exchanged with those who were disposed to love her, would have made her wise instead of learned, useful instead of harmless, beloved rather than served, and mourned rather than merely remembered."

"But she could not have been a pious woman," said Monteath. "A life of selfishness is inconsistent with piety."

"Nobody can say that she was not religious," replied Charles; "because nobody knew what she felt and thought: some say that she must have been pious, or she could not have been placid and contented under her deprivations. I should therefore suppose that she had just enough reliance upon Providence to prevent a naturally cheerful mind from being corroded by discontent: but it is easy to see that she had not those comprehensive views, which teach that the very best of selfish pleasures, those of intellectual cultivation, are to be pursued as a means only, not as an end, and that the grand design for which we are created is to diminish continually our concern for ourselves in an increasing love of God and our neighbour."

"I cannot help," said Monteath, "applying cases like these to myself, just now. I want to place as many guides and as many warnings before me as possible. I hope it is not selfish to think of these things with a reference to myself, and to tell you that I do so."

"By no means," replied Charles; "for I imagine that you feel the present time as a kind of crisis in your character. I think you must enter the world from a bed of pain, either better or worse than when you left it, and you are right to make use of all the helps you can."

"Then give me," said Monteath, "some instances of benevolence promoted, of hearts and hands opened by personal suffering. It will do me good to hear them."

Just as Charles was beginning to speak, Mrs Monteath came into the room, and the conversation was turned into a different channel. Charles regretted this, but she had something quite different to ask her son about. The greater part of the day was spent in cheerful chat, and in reading aloud, which Mrs Monteath proposed, that Henry might not exert himself too much in talking. In the evening the young men were again left alone for awhile, and Monteath asked his friend to read a little to him from the Bible. Charles did so with much satisfaction, and after he had done, Henry tried to express to him what comfort and support their religious exercises had afforded him on his night of suffering. Charles rejoiced to hear him say so, but stopped him when he wished to speak of his obligations and his gratitude. They parted for the night with as warm feelings of interest and esteem as one day could produce, and another confirm.

In the morning they met only for a few moments. They agreed to correspond occasionally, and to look forward to a time, not very far distant, when Monteath's visit to London might give them an opportunity of meeting again. Charles then mounted the coach, and sighed when he thought of the friends he had left behind, and of the small number who would greet him with pleasure on his return to London.



CHAPTER FOUR.

When Charles returned to his usual employments, and mixed again with companions who had no peculiar interest in his concerns, he could scarcely for an instant keep his thoughts from dwelling on the home he had left, and his anxiety to know more of Isabella became painful.

He received a letter from Jane the day after his arrival, but the tidings were not pleasant. Isabella was in great danger: her fever ran high, and for many hours she had been delirious. Charles was to hear again by the next post. The next post brought a letter from Mr Barker. Isabella was not better, and Mr Everett thought that if a great change for the better did not take place in forty-eight hours, she could not live. After giving these particulars, the letter continued:

"Do not be too anxious about Jane: she is surrounded by kind friends; who are willing to help her, but she needs no assistance. She will relinquish the care of her sister to none but Hannah, and never even to her, except when a few hours of rest are absolutely necessary to her. She seems strong in mind and body, quite aware of the danger, and quite prepared for every thing. She has allowed her friends to take charge of Harriet and Alfred: they are with us just now. Mr Monteath and his daughters are much concerned at this illness, and so are the Franklins. Mrs F. shews her kindness in a very acceptable manner. She has sent a dinner ready cooked, every day, to your sister's house, that Jane may have as much of Hannah's assistance as possible. Mr Monteath sent some excellent Madeira, on hearing that wine was ordered, and his daughters have procured foreign grapes and various other luxuries for the invalid. I mention these things to prove to you that your sisters will want no assistance that friends can give, and even at this time it will be a great pleasure to you to be convinced that their worth is appreciated, and that their claims to esteem are allowed.

"We are very sorry for you, Charles, that you must be away just now: but you did right in going at the time you promised, and we will still hope that you will be rewarded by hearing better tidings than I am able to communicate to-day. You shall hear by every post. All your friends here send their love to you, and so do I, my dear boy. Farewell.