How repugnant to a sensitive mind is a forced association with persons in whom we can find no affinity; and whose sentiments and pursuits are at utter variance with our own. I was acutely alive to these impressions, whenever I encountered the sidelong, watchful glance of my cousin. There was nothing straightforward in him; he never looked friend or enemy honestly in the face. We mutually understood each other. Though he scrupulously avoided addressing his conversation to me, yet it was chiefly intended for my edification; and was replete with satirical observations.

I detest this covert manner of attack; it is mean and unfair in the highest degree, as it deprives the person attacked from taking his own part, and boldly defending himself. Theophilus was a perfect adept at this dastardly species of warfare.

I tried to treat his conduct with silent contempt; but his provoking remarks galled me exceedingly; and often, when I appeared unconscious of their being levelled against me, and earnestly engaged in the perusal of some dull law-book, I was listening to every word he uttered, and quivering with indignation. Theophilus enjoyed my discomfiture, and I found his powers of tormenting greater than I had at first imagined.

The second day after his arrival, he sent a message up to my room, to inform me that he required that apartment for his valet, and I could remove to a chamber in the next story.

I returned for answer, "That I should not quit the occupation of the room that had been allotted to my use by his father, until I received positive orders from him to that effect. But I should only require it a few days longer, and then he could do as he pleased."

This insolent demand was not seconded by Mr. Moncton, and I took no further notice of it.

That my uncle had a game of his own to play, when he took me from the obscurity of the office and introduced me into society, I was now more than ever convinced. Whilst in the presence of his son he treated me with marked attention and respect, which rendered my situation far more trying and irksome, as I mistrusted the designs of the one and detested the other.

I felt that Mr. Moncton acted thus, on purpose to annoy Theophilus, and make him feel the weight of the resentment, which for good reasons he dared not openly express; while he praised my talents and application to business, on purpose to rouse the envy and hatred of my cousin.

One afternoon, as we were sitting over the dessert, Mr. Moncton as usual addressed his conversation exclusively to me, which irritated Theophilus to such a degree, that he turned suddenly to his father, and exclaimed with much violence:

"You seem, sir, to forget you have a son?"

"Yes, when that son forgot what was due to himself, and to his father's house."

"You have to thank yourself for that," was the insolent reply. "I have trod too closely in your own footsteps, and followed too strictly the honest principles of my father." He laughed bitterly. "It seems strange, that you should be surprised, that such an example should have produced corresponding effects upon the mind and character of your son."

Shocked at this horrible speech (for in spite of its awful truth, it seemed terrible from the mouth of a son,) I looked from Theophilus to his father, expecting to see the dark eye of the latter alive with the light of passion. But no—there he sat, mute as a marble statue; it was frightful to contemplate the glossy stare of his glittering eye, the rigid immobility of his countenance.

"Heavens!" I mentally exclaimed, "can he be insulted in this manner by his only son, and remain thus calm?" But calm he was, without even attempting a reply, whilst his insolent son continued.

"By heaven! if you think that advancing that puppy into my place will bend me to your purpose, you grossly deceive yourself. I pity the stupid puppet who can thus sneak to his bitterest enemy, to obtain a position he could never rise to by his own merit. Silly boy!—I laugh at his folly, our shallow policy, and his credulity."

The words were scarcely out his mouth, when I sprang from my chair, and with a well-directed blow levelled him at my feet.

"Thank you, Geoffrey!" exclaimed Mr. Moncton, raising the crest-fallen hero from the ground: "You have answered both for yourself and me."

"I have been too rash," said I, seeing the blood stream copiously from my cousin's nose; "but he exasperated me beyond endurance."

"He provoked it himself," returned Mr. Moncton. "I never blame any person when insulted, for taking his own part. You need be under no apprehension of a hostile encounter: Theophilus is a cowardly dog—he can bark and snarl, but dares not fight. Go to your room, Geoffrey, you will be better friends after this."

He said this in a tone of such bitter irony, that I hardly knew whether he was pleased with what I had done, or offended, for who could fathom the mind of such a man? I instantly complied with his request, and felt, however mortifying to my pride, that Theophilus Moncton had uttered the truth.

"In another week," I exclaimed, as I strode through the apartment—"yes, in less than a week, I shall obtain my majority: I shall be free, and then farewell to this accursed house of bondage for ever!"

Theophilus had not been home many days, before I perceived a decided alteration in the once friendly greetings I had been accustomed to receive from Mr. Moncton's guests. I was no longer invited to their parties, or treated with those flattering marks of attention which had been so gratifying to my vanity, and given me such an exalted idea of my own consequence.

At first I was at a loss to imagine what had produced this sudden change. One simple sentence at length solved all these unpleasant doubts, and pressed the unwelcome truth home to my heart. Robert Moncton had been reconciled to his son, and I was once more regarded as only a poor relation.

The day I made this important discovery, I had been detained at the office long after our usual dinner-hour, and meeting with a friend on my way home, I sauntered with him several times up and down Regent Street, before I returned to my uncle's house.

I was not aware that my uncle expected company that day, until informed by Saunders in the hall, that a large party were assembled in the dining-room.

I was a little provoked at not receiving any intimation of the event, and in being too late for appearing at dinner, the third course having been placed on the table; but I hurried away to my own apartment to change my dress, and join the ladies in the drawing-room.

This important duty was scarcely effected, before Saunders entered with a tray covered with dainties, which he had catered for my benefit.

"I was determined, Mr. Geoffrey, that they should not have all the good things to themselves. Here is an excellent cut of salmon and lobster-sauce; the plump breast of a partridge, and a slice of delicious ham—besides, the sunkets. If you cannot make a good dinner off these, why, I says, that you deserves to be hungry."

And throwing a snowy napkin over a small table near the fire, he deposited the tray and its tempting contents thereon, placed my chair, and stood behind it with beaming eyes, his jolly, rosy face radiant with good-nature and benevolence.

I thanked him heartily for his attention to my comfort, and being tired and hungry, did ample justice to the meal he had provided.

"This party has been got up in a hurry, Saunders?"

"Not at all, sir. I carried out the invitations four days ago."

"You surprise me!" said I, dropping my knife and fork. "Four days ago—and I know nothing about it. That is something new."

"It is young Mr. Moncton's doings, sir. The party is given in honour of his return. Says Mr. Theophilus to the Guv'nor, says he, 'I shall say nothing to Geoffrey, about it. What a capital joke it will be, to see him bolt into the room without studying the Graces for an hour.' I think it was the Graces, he said, sir; but whether it's a law book, or a book of fashions, sir, hang me if I can tell."

"But why did not you give me a hint of this, my good fellow?"

"Why, sir," said Saunders, hesitating and looking down, "everybody in this world has his troubles, and I, sir, have mine. Trouble, sir, makes a man forget every one's affairs but his own; and so, sir, the thing slipped quite out of my 'ead."

"And what has happened to trouble such a light heart as yours, Saunders?"

"Ah, sir!" sighing and shaking his head, "you remember Jemima, the pretty chamber maid, who lives at Judge Falcon's, across the street; I am sure you must, sir, for no one that saw Jemima once could forget her; and it was your first praising her that made me cast an eye upon her. Well, sir, I looked and loved, and became desperate about her, and offered her my 'onest 'and and 'eart, sir, and she promised to become my wife. Yes, indeed, she did; and we exchanged rings, and lucky sixpences and all that; and I gave master warning for next week; and took lodgings in a genteel country-looking cottage on the Deptford road. But I was never destined to find love there with Jemima."

"And what has happened to prevent your marriage?" said I, growing impatient and wishing to cut his long story down to the basement.

"Many a slip, sir, between the cup and the lip. There's truth in those old saws howsomever. Mr. Theophilus's French valet, poured such a heap of flummery into the dear girl's ears, that it turned her 'ead altogether, and she run off with the haffected puppy last night; but let him look well after himself, for I swear the first time I catch him, I'll make cat's meat of him. Ah! sir, the song says, that it's the men who is so cruelly deceitful, but I have found it the reverse. Never trust in vimen, sir! I swear I'll hate 'em all from this day, for Jemima's sake."

"Consider yourself a fortunate fellow," said I. "You have made a very narrow escape."

"Ah, sir, it's all very well talking, when you don't feel the smart yourself. I loved that false creter with my 'ole 'art. But there's one thing," brightening up, "which consoles me under this great haffliction, the annoyance that it has given to Mr. Theophilus. This morning, there was no one to dress him—to flatter his vanity and tell him what a fine gentleman he is: I had to carry up his boots and shaving-water. It was rare fun to see him stamping and raving about the room, and vishing all the vimen in the vorld at the devil. But hark! there's the dining-room bell. More wine. The ladies have just left for the drawing-room."

The blaze of lights, the gay assemblage of youth and beauty which arrested my eyes as Saunders threw back the folding-doors, sent a sudden thrill of joy to my heart. But these feelings were quickly damped by the cold and distant salutations I received from the larger portion of the company there assembled. Persons who a few weeks before had courted my acquaintance and flattered my vanity, by saying and doing a thousand agreeable things, had not a friendly word to offer.

The meaning glance which passed round the circle when I appeared among them, chilled the warm glow of pleasure, which the sight of so many fair and familiar faces had called up.

What could be the meaning of all this? A vague suspicion dashed into my mind, that my cousin was the direct cause of this change in the aspect of affairs, and, sick and disgusted with the world, I sat down at a distant table and began mechanically to turn over a large portfolio of splendid prints that I had not noticed before, and which I afterwards discovered, had been brought by Theophilus from Paris.

A half suppressed titter from two young ladies near me, and which I felt was meant for me, stung my proud heart to the quick. A dark mist floated between me and the lights; and the next moment I determined to leave the room in which I felt that my presence was not required, and where I was evidently regarded as an intruder.

I had just risen from my seat to effect a quiet retreat, when the folding-doors were again thrown open, and Mrs. Hepburn and Miss Lee were announced.

What were these strangers to me? The new arrival appeared to make no small sensation. A general bustle ensued, and my eyes unconsciously followed the rest.

The blood receded from my cheeks, to flush them again to a feverish glow, when I instantly recognized the lovely girl and her aunt, whom I had for so many months sought for, and sought in vain.

Yes, it was she—my adored Catherine—no longer pale and agitated from recent danger, but radiant in youth and beauty, her lovely person adorned with costly jewels, and the rich garments that fashion has rendered indispensable to her wealthy votaries.

"Miss Lee," was whispered among the ladies near me.

"Mr. Moncton's ward?"

"The rich heiress."

"Do you think her handsome?"

"Yes—passable."

"Too short."

"Her figure pretty—but insignificant."

"She is just out."

"So I hear. She will not make any great sensation. Too sentimental and countrified. As Lord Byron says,—'Smells of bread and butter.'"

This last sneering remark, I considered a compliment. My charming Kate, looked as fresh and natural as a new-blown rose with the morning dew still fresh upon its petals. There was nothing studied or affected about her—no appearance of display—no effort to attract admiration; she was an unsophisticated child of nature, and the delightful frankness, with which she received the homage of the male portion of the company, was quite a contrast to the supercilious airs of the fashionable belles.

The opinion of the gentlemen with regard to the fair debutante, was quite the reverse of those given by her own sex.

"What a lovely girl!"

"What an easy graceful carriage!"

"Did you ever see a more charming expression—a more bewitching smile? A perfect lady from head to foot."

"I have lost my heart already."

"By Jove! won't she make a noise in the gay world!"

"The beauty of the season."

"A prize, independent of her large for tune!"

"And doubly a prize with."

And thus the men prated of her among themselves.

The excitement at length subsided; and favoured by the obscurity of my situation, I could watch at a distance all her movements, and never tire of gazing upon that beaming face.

By some strange coincidence, I could hardly think it purely accidental, Mrs. Hepburn and her niece came up to the table upon which I was leaning.

I rose up in confusion, wondering if they would recognize me, and offered the elder lady my chair.

In my hurry and agitation, the portfolio fell from my hand, and the fine prints were scattered over the floor and table.

A general laugh arose at my expense; I felt annoyed, but laughed as loudly as the rest. Miss Lee, very good-naturedly assisted me in restoring the prints to their place, then looking earnestly in my face for a few seconds, she said—"Surely, I am not deceived—you are the gentleman who rescued me from that frightful situation in Oxford Street."

"The same," said I, with a smile.

"How delighted I am to meet you once more," she exclaimed, giving me her hand, and warmly shaking mine; "I was afraid that I should never see you again. And your name—you must tell me your name."

"Geoffrey Moncton. But, Miss Lee, do not distress me by thinking so much of a trifling service, which gave me so much pleasure."

"Trifling! do you call it? Sir, you saved my life, and I never can forget the debt of gratitude I owe you. Aunt," turning to Mrs. Hepburn, "do you remember this gentleman? How often we have talked that adventure over, and wondered who my preserver was. It is such a pleasure to see him here."

The old lady, though not quite so eloquent as her niece, was kind enough in her way. Wishing to change the subject, I asked Miss Lee if she drew?

"A little."

"Let us examine these beautiful prints," said I.

I gave her a chair, and leant over her. My heart fluttered with delight. I forgot my recent mortification. I was near her, and, in the rapture of the moment, could have defied the malice of the whole world.

"I am no judge of the merits or demerits of a picture," she said, in her sweet, gentle voice. "I know what pleases me, and suffer my heart to decide for my head."

"That is exactly my case, Miss Lee. A picture to interest me, must produce the same effect upon my mind as if the object represented was really there. This is the reason, perhaps, why I feel less pleasure in examining those pictures by the ancient masters, though portrayed with matchless skill, which represent the heathen deities. With Jupiter, Mars and Venus, I can feel little sympathy, while the truthful and spirited delineations of Wilkie and Gainsborough, which have beep familiar from childhood, strike home to the heart."

Before Miss Lee could reply, Theophilus Moncton walked to the table at which we were talking. He stared at me, without deigning a word of recognition, and shook hands cordially with Miss Lee and her aunt.

"Happy to see you here, Catherine—was afraid you would be too much fatigued, after dancing all night, to give us a look in this evening. Been admiring my prints? Splendid collection, ain't they? By-the-by, Mr. Geoffrey, I would thank you to be more careful in handling them. Persons unaccustomed to fine drawings, are apt to injure them by rough treatment."

A contemptuous glance was my reply, which was returned by a sidelong withering glare of hate.

"That picture, on the opposite side of the room," continued my tormentor, anxious to divert Miss Lee's attention from me, "is a fine portrait, by Sir Thomas Lawrence. You are an admirer of his style; let us examine the picture nearer; I want to have your opinion of it."

They crossed the room. In a few seconds, a large group gathered before the picture of which Theophilus and Miss Lee formed the nucleus, and half a dozen wax-lights were held up to exhibit it to the best advantage.

Theophilus was eloquent in praising Lawrence's style of painting, and entertained the company with an elaborate detail of all the celebrated paintings he had seen abroad; the studios he had visited, and the distinguished artists he had patronized. He could talk well, when he pleased, on any subject, and possessed considerable talent and taste for the arts; yet, I thought him more egotistical and affected than usual, when standing beside the simple and graceful Catherine Lee.

She listened to him with politeness, until the gratuitous lecture came to an end, and then quietly resumed her seat at the table by me, with whom she entered into a lively conversation.

The swarthy glow of indignation mounted to my cousin's wan face. He drew back, and muttered something inaudibly between his shut teeth, while I secretly enjoyed his chagrin. When supper was announced I had the honour of conducting Miss Lee down stairs, leaving my cousin to take charge of the elder lady. Nor did my triumph end here. Catherine insisted on taking a seat at the lower end of the table, and I found myself once more placed by her side.

"I do detest upper seats at feasts," said she; "it exposes you to observation, while in our pleasant obscurity we can enjoy a little friendly chat. I never could understand why so many ladies quarrel so much about taking precedence of each other."

"It is only ambition in a small way," said I.

"Very small, indeed," she continued, laughing. "But tell me, why you were not at Mrs. Wilton's large party last night?"

"Simply, because I was not invited."

"The Monctons were there, father and son. But, perhaps you mix very little in the gaieties of the town."

"Since Theophilus returned, I have been very little from home; and have become a mere cipher with my old friends. A few weeks ago, these Wilton's courted my acquaintance, and the young men vied with each other, in paying me attention. To-night, we met as perfect strangers. To me, the change is unaccountable. I am, however, a perfect novice in the ways of the world. Such examples of selfish meanness often repeated will render me a misanthrope."

"You must not condemn all, because you have experienced the unmerited neglect of a few," said Catherine. "Selfish, interested people are found in every community. It is a maxim with me, never to judge the mass by individuals. Many of the persons we meet with in the world do not live entirely for it, and are incapable of the conduct you deplore. I have met with warm hearts and kind friends amid the gay scenes you condemn—young people, who like myself, are compelled by circumstances to mingle in society, while their thoughts and affections are far away."

"You have never experienced the frowns of the world," said I; "I can scarcely allow you to be a competent judge."

"I am prepared to meet them," she replied, quickly—then stopped—and sighed deeply. I looked up inquiringly.

The expression of her fine face was changed from a cheerful to a pensive cast. It was not actual sorrow which threw a shade over her clear brow, but she looked as if she had encountered some unexpected misfortune, and was prepared to meet it with resignation. She passed her small white hand slowly across her forehead, and I thought I saw tears trembling in her eyes. My interest was deeply excited, and I loved her better for having suffered. I redoubled my attentions, and before the company rose from table, I fancied that she no longer regarded me with indifference.

From this happy dream, I too soon awoke to an agonizing consciousness of my own insignificance. A Counsellor Sabine, who had been conversing with my uncle during the greater part of the evening, beckoned me over to a distant part of the room, and I reluctantly obeyed the summons. He wanted me to settle a dispute between him and Mr. Moncton, relative to some papers, which he said had been entrusted to my care.

My place by Catherine Lee's side was instantly filled by Theophilus.

Mrs. Hepburn, Catherine's aunt, asked him in a low voice, which, occupied as I was with other matters, did not fail to reach my ears, who I was, and the station I held in society, and ended her remarks by passing sundry encomiums on my person and accomplishments.

"Accomplishments!" repeated Theophilus, with a sneer. "I know not how he should be accomplished, Mrs. Hepburn. He is a poor clerk in my father's office; and as to his standing in society, that is something new to me. He is a natural son of my uncle Edward's, whom my father adopted into the family, and brought him up out of charity. I was surprised at him, an uninvited guest, daring to address his conversation to Miss Lee."

It was well for the dastard, that he was protected by the presence of ladies, and beyond the reach of my arm, or I certainly should have committed an act of violence.

I restrained my indignation, however, and appeared outwardly calm—received some instructions from the counsellor and noted them down with stoical precision. My hand did not tremble, my passion was too terrible for trifling demonstrations. I think I could have put a pistol to his head, and seen him bleeding at my feet, without feeling one pang of remorse.

Miss Lee's carriage was announced. I roused myself from a dream of vengeance, and offered my arm to conduct her down stairs. She cast upon me a look of sorrowful meaning, and her aunt refused my services with a distant bow.

I drew proudly back "This," I thought, "is their gratitude. This is like the rest of the world."

Mrs. Hepburn gave her hand to Theophilus, and with a grin of triumph he led them out.

After the company had separated I went up to Theophilus, and demanded an explanation of his ungentlemanly conduct. The answer I received was an insolent laugh.

No longer able to restrain my feelings, I poured upon him the boiling rage of my indignation, and did and said many bitter things, that had been better unsaid. He threatened to complain of me to his father. I dared him to do his worst—and left the room in a state of dreadful excitement.

The next morning, while busy in the office, Mr. Moncton came in, and closed the door carefully after him.

I rose as he entered and stood erect before him. I knew by the deadly pallor of his face, that something decisive was about to take place.

"Geoffrey," he said, in a low, hoarse voice, which he vainly endeavoured to make calm, "you have grossly insulted my son, and spoken to him in the most disrespectful terms of me, your friend and benefactor. Without you will make a full and satisfactory apology to me for such intemperate language, and ask his pardon, you may dread my just displeasure."

"Ask his pardon!" I cried; almost choking with passion—"for what? For his treating me like a menial and a slave!—Never, Mr. Moncton, never!"

My uncle regarded me with the same icy glance which froze my blood when a child, while I recapitulated my wrongs, with all the eloquence which passion gives—passion which makes even the slow of speech act the part of an orator.

He listened to me with a smile of derision.

Carried beyond the bounds of prudence, I told him, that I would no longer be subjected to such degrading tyranny; that his deceitful conduct had cancelled all ties of obligation between us; that the favours lately conferred upon me, I now saw had only been bestowed to effect my ruin; that he had been acting a base and treacherous game with me to further his own dishonest views; that I was fully aware of his motives, and appreciated them as they deserved; that he well knew the story of my illegitimacy was a forgery, that I had the means to prove it one, and would do it shortly; that the term of my articles would expire on the following day, and I would then leave his house for ever and seek my own living.

"You may do so to-day," he replied, in the same cool sarcastic tone; and unlocking his desk he took out the indentures.

A sudden terror seized me. Something in his look threatened danger: I drew a quicker breath, and advanced a few paces nearer.

All my hopes were centered in that sheet of parchment, to obtain which, I had endured seven years of cruel bondage. "No, no," said I, mentally, "he cannot be such a villain—he dare not do it!"

The next moment the fatal scroll lay torn and defaced at my feet. A cry of despair burst from my lips: I sprang forward, and with one blow laid him senseless at my feet, and fled from the house.

I saw Robert Moncton but once again. Recollection shudders when I recall that dreadful meeting.

I walked rapidly down the street, perfectly unconscious that I was without my hat, and that the rain was falling in torrents; or that I was an object of curiosity to the passers-by.

Some one caught my arm.

I turned angrily round to shake off the intruder—it was my friend Harrison.

"In the name of Heaven! Geoffrey, tell me what has happened? What is the matter—are you in your right senses? Have you quarrelled with your uncle? Let me return with you to the house," were questions he asked in a breath.

"My uncle! he is an infernal scoundrel!" I exclaimed, throwing out my clenched hand, and hurrying on still faster. "Oh, that I could crush him with one blow of this fist!"

"Geoffrey, you are mad—do you know what you say?"

"Perfectly well—stand back, and let me kill him!"

He put his arm forcibly round me. "Calm yourself, Geoffrey. What has caused this dreadful excitement? Good Heavens! how you tremble. Lean upon me—heavier yet. The arm of a sincere friend supports you—one who will never desert you, let what will befall."

"Leave me, George, to my fate. I have been shamefully treated, and I don't care what becomes of me."

"If you are unable to take care of yourself, Geoffrey," he replied, clasping my hand fervently in his own, and directing my steps down a less frequented street, "it is highly necessary that some one should, until your mind a restored to its usual tranquillity. Return with me to my lodgings; take a composing draught, and go to bed. Your eyes are bloodshot, and starting from your head for want of sleep."

"Sleep! how is it possible for me to sleep, when the blood is boiling in my veins, and my brain is on fire, and I am tempted every moment to commit an act of desperation?"

"This feverish state cannot last, my poor friend; these furious bursts of passion must yield to exhaustion. Your knees bend under you. In a few minutes we shall be beyond public observation, and can talk over the matter calmly."

As he ceased speaking, a deadly faintness stole over me—my head grew giddy, the surrounding objects swam round me in endless circles and with surprising rapidity, the heavens vanished from my sight, and darkness, blank darkness closed me in, and I should have fallen to the earth, but for the strong arm which held me in its grasp.

When I again opened my eyes, it was in the identical apothecary's shop into which, some months before, I had carried the fainting Catherine Lee. The little apothecary was preparing to open a vein in my arm. This operation afforded me instant relief; my fury began to subside, and tears slowly trickled down my cheeks.

George, who was anxiously watching every change in my countenance, told the shop-boy to call a coach, which conveyed me in a few minutes to his old lodgings in Fleet Street.



CHAPTER XV.

GEORGE HARRISON AND HIS HISTORY.

Many days passed over me of which I was totally unconscious. A violent fever had set in, and I was not aware of my situation; scarcely of the bodily sufferings I endured. My wants were ministered to by the kindest, truest friend that ever soothed the miseries of the unfortunate.

Fancying myself still under the control of Robert Moncton, and a resident beneath his roof, I raved continually of my wrongs, and exhausted myself by threats of vengeance. Long before the crisis of the fever had passed, George had gathered from my impotent ravings the story of my injuries. After fluctuating a long time between life and death, youth and a naturally strong constitution conquered my malady, and I once more thought and felt like a rational creature. My indignation against my uncle and cousin subsided into a sullen, implacable hatred, to overcome which I tried, and even prayed in vain. Ashamed of harbouring this sinful passion, I yet wanted the moral courage and Christian forbearance to overcome what reason and conscience united to condemn.

Degraded in my own estimation, I longed, yet dreaded to confide to Harrison, that the man he attended with such devotion was capable of such base degeneracy—of entertaining sentiments only worthy of Robert Moncton and his son.

The violence of my disorder had reduced me to such a state of weakness that I imagined myself at the point of death, when I was actually out of danger. My nervous system was so greatly affected that I yielded to the most childish fears, and contemplated dying with indescribable horror.

Harrison, who was unacquainted with the state of my mind, attributed these feelings to the reaction produced by the fever; and thinking that a state of quiescence was necessary for my recovery, seldom spoke to me but at those times when, with tenderness almost feminine, he gave me food and medicine, arranged my pillows, or made affectionate inquiries about my bodily state. I often pretended to be asleep, while my mind was actively employed in conjuring up a host of ghastly phantoms, which prevented my recovery, and were effectually undermining my reason.

One afternoon, as I lay in a sort of dreamy state, between sleeping and waking, and mournfully brooding over my perishing hopes and approaching dissolution, I thought that a majestic figure, clothed in flowing garments of glistening white, came to my bedside, and said to me in tones of exquisite sweetness, "Poor, perishing, sinful child of earth! if you wish to enter Heaven, you must first forgive your enemies. The gate of Life is kept by Love, who is ready to open to every one who first withdraws the bar which Hatred has placed before the narrow entrance."

Overwhelmed with fear and astonishment, I started up in the bed, exclaiming in tones of agonized entreaty, "Oh, God, forgive me! I cannot do it!"

"Do what, dear Geoffrey?" said George, coming to the bedside, and taking my hand in his.

"Forgive my enemies. Forgive those wretches who have brought me to this state, and by their cruel conduct placed both life and reason in jeopardy. I cannot do it, though He, the merciful, who dying forgave his enemies, commands me to do so."

"Geoffrey," said Harrison, soothingly, "you can never recover your health, or feel happy till you can accomplish this great moral victory over sin and self."

"I cannot do it!" I responded, turning from him, and burying my face in the bed-clothes while I hardened my heart against conviction. "No, not if I perish for refusing. I feel as if I were already with the condemned."

"No wonder," returned Harrison, sternly. "Hatred and its concomitant passion, Revenge, are feelings worthy of the damned. I beseech you, Geoffrey, by the dying prayer of that blessed Saviour, whom you profess to believe, try to rise superior to these soul-debasing passions; and not only forgive, but learn to pity, the authors of your sufferings."

"I have done my best. I have even prayed to do so."

"Not in a right spirit, or your prayers would have been heard and accepted. What makes you dread death? Speak the truth out boldly. Does not this hatred to your uncle and cousin stand between you and Heaven?"

"I confess it. But, Harrison, could you forgive them?"

"Yes."

"Not under the same provocation?"

"I have done so under worse."

"God in Heaven!—how is that possible?"

"It is true."

"I won't believe it," said I, turning angrily upon the pillow. "It is not in human nature; and few can rise above the weakness of their kind."

"Listen to me, Geoffrey," said Harrison, seating himself on the side of the bed. "You wished very much at one time to learn from me the story of my past life. I did not think it prudent at that time, and while under Robert Moncton's roof, to gratify your curiosity. I will do so now, in the hope of beguiling you out of your present morbid state of feeling, while it may answer the purpose of teaching you a good, moral lesson, which I trust you will not easily forget.

"Man's happiness depends in a great measure on the sympathy of others. His sufferings, by the same rule, are greatly alleviated when contrasted with the miseries of his neighbours, particularly if their sorrows happen to exceed his own.

"Much of my history must remain in the shade, because time alone can unravel the mystery by which I am surrounded; and many important passages in my life, prudence forces me to conceal. But, my dear fellow, if my trials and sufferings will in any way reconcile you to your lot, and enable you to bear with fortitude your own, your friend will not have suffered and sinned in vain."

George adjusted my pillows, and gave me my medicine, stirred the fire to a cheerful blaze, and commenced the narrative that for so many months I had so ardently longed to hear.

* * * * *

HARRISON'S STORY.

"Perhaps, Geoffrey, you are not aware that your grandfather left Sir Robert Moncton, the father of the present Baronet, guardian and trustee to his two sons, until they arrived at their majority; Edward at the time of his death, being eighteen years of age, Robert a year and a half younger.

"What tempted Geoffrey Moncton to leave his sons to the guardianship of the aristocratic father, from whom he had parted in anger many years before, no one could tell.

"The Baronet was a very old man, and was much respected in his day; and it is possible that the dying merchant found by experience, that he could place more reliance on the honour of a gentleman, than in a man of business. Or it might be, that on his death-bed he repented of the long family estrangement, and left his sons to the care of their grandfather, as a proof that all feelings of animosity were buried in his grave.

"Sir Robert's eldest son had been dead for some years, and the present Baronet, who resided with his grandfather, was just two years older than your father, and for several years the cousins lived very amicably beneath the same roof—were sent to the same college in Oxford to finish their studies and mingle in the same society.

"It was unfortunate for your father, who had too little ballast to regulate his own conduct, that he contracted the most ardent friendship for the young Alexander, who was a gay, reckless, dissipated fellow, regarding his wealth as the source from which he derived all his sensual pleasures, and not as a talent committed to his stewardship, of which he must one day give an account.

"Sir Alexander's early career, though not worse than that of many young men of the same class, was unmarked by any real moral worth. His elegant person, good taste, and graceful manners, won for him the esteem and affection of those around him. Frank, courteous, and ever ready to use his influence with Sir Robert, in mitigating the distress of his poor tenants, he was almost adored by the lower classes, and by whom, in return, they were treated with a degree of familiarity, much beneath his position as a gentleman. From this extravagant, kind-hearted, and popular young man, Edward Moncton contracted those habits which terminated in his ruin.

"Congeniality of mind strongly attached the cousins to each other; and I am certain that Sir Alexander truly loved the frank, confiding, careless Edward Moncton, while he equally disliked the cold, calculating, money-getting propensities of his brother Robert. Robert possessed a disposition not likely to forget or forgive a slight; and he deeply resented the preference shown to his brother; and his hatred, though carefully concealed, was actively employed in forming schemes of vengeance.

"You well know, how Robert Moncton can hate; the depths of guile, and the slow, smooth words, with which he can conceal the malignity of his nature, and hide the purposes of his heart. He had a game too to play, from which he hoped to rise up the winner; and to obtain this object he alternately flattered and deceived his unconscious victims.

"The particulars of your father's quarrel with Sir Alexander I never knew; it took place just before the young men left college and became their own masters; but it was of such a nature that they parted in anger, never to meet again.

"Shortly after this quarrel old Sir Robert died; and Alexander Moncton came in for the estates and title. Your father and uncle, both being now of age, entered upon the great business of life. Your father resumed the business bequeathed to him by his father, and your uncle entered into partnership with the firm, of which he now stands the head and sole proprietor.

"Several years passed away. The only intercourse between the families was through Sir Alexander and his cousin Robert, who, in spite of the young Baronet's aversion, contrived to stick to him like a bur, until he fairly wriggled himself into his favour. At thirty, Sir Alexander still remained a bachelor, and seemed too general an admirer of the sex to resign his liberty to any particular belle.

"About this period of my story one of Sir Alexander's game-keepers was shot by a band of poachers, who infested the neighbourhood. Richard North, the husband of Dinah, had made himself most obnoxious to these lawless depredators, and thus fell a victim to his over-zeal.

"Sir Alexander considered himself bound in honour to provide for the widow and her daughter of his faithful servant, particularly as the former had been left without any means of support. Both mother and daughter were received into his service—Dinah as housekeeper at the Hall, and her daughter Rachel as upper chamber-maid.

"Dinah, at that period, was not more than thirty-four years of age, and for a person of her class was well educated, and uncommonly handsome. I see you smile, Geoffrey, but such was the fact.

"Rachel, who was just sixteen, was considered a perfect model of female beauty, by all the young fellows who kept Bachelors' Hall with Sir Alexander. The young Baronet fell desperately in love with his fair dependent, and the girl and her mother entertained hopes that he would make her his wife. Pride, however, hindered him from making her Lady Moncton. In order to break the spell that bound him he gave the mother a pretty cottage on the estate, and a few acres of land rent-free, and went up to London to forget, amid its gay scenes, the bright eyes that had sorely wounded his peace.

"Dinah North was not a woman likely to bear with indifference the pangs of disappointed ambition. She bitterly reproached her daughter for having played her cards so ill, and vowed vengeance on the proud lord of the manor, in curses loud and deep.

"Rachel's character, though not quite so harshly defined, possessed too much of the vindictive nature of the mother. She had loved Sir Alexander with all the ardour of a first youthful attachment. His wealth and station were nothing to her—it was the man alone she prized. Had he been a peasant, she would have loved as warmly and as well. Lost to her for ever, she overlooked the great pecuniary favours just conferred upon her mother and herself, and only lived to be revenged.

"It was while smarting under their recent disappointment that these women were sought out and bribed by Robert Moncton to become his agents in a deep-laid conspiracy, which he hoped to carry out against Sir Alexander and his family.

"Robert Moncton was still unmarried, and Dinah took the charge of his establishment, being greatly enraged with her beautiful daughter for making a run-away match with Roger Mornington, Sir Alexander's huntsman, who was a handsome man, and the finest rider in the county of York.

"After an absence of five years, Sir Alexander suddenly returned to Moncton Park, accompanied by a young and lovely bride. During that five years, a great change had taken place in the young Baronet, who returned a sincere Christian and an altered man.

"Devotedly attached to the virtuous and beautiful lady whom he had wisely chosen for his mate, the whole study of his life was to please her, and keep alive the tender affections of the noble heart he had secured.

"They loved, as few modern couples love; and Sir Alexander's friends, and he had many, deeply sympathized in his happiness.

"Two beings alone upon his estate viewed his felicity with jealous and malignant eyes—two beings, who, from their lowly and dependent situations, would have been thought incapable of marring the happiness which excited their envy. Dinah North had been reconciled to her daughter, and they occupied the huntsman's lodge, a beautiful cottage within the precincts of the park. Dinah had secretly vowed vengeance on the man who, from principle, had saved her child from the splendid shame the avaricious mother coveted. She was among the first to offer her services, and those of her daughter, to Lady Moncton. The pretty young wife of the huntsman attracted the attention of the lady of the Hall, and she employed her constantly about her person, while in cases of sickness, for she was very fragile, Dinah officiated as nurse.

"A year passed away, and the lady of the manor and the wife of the lowly huntsman were both looking forward with anxious expectation to the birth of their first-born.

"At midnight, on the 10th of October, 1804, an heir was given to the proud house of Moncton; a weak, delicate, puny babe, who nearly cost his mother her life. At the same hour, in the humble cottage at the entrance of that rich domain, your poor friend, George Harrison (or Philip Mornington, which is my real name) was launched upon the stormy ocean of life."

At this part of Harrison's narrative I fell back upon my pillow and groaned heavily.

George flew to my assistance, raising me in his arms and sprinkling my face with water.

"Are you ill, dear Geoffrey?"

"Not ill, George, but grieved: sick at heart, that you should be grandson to that dreadful old hag."

"We cannot choose our parentage," said George, sorrowfully. "The station in which we are born, constitutes fate in this world; it is the only thing pertaining to man over which his will has no control. We can destroy our own lives, but our birth is entirely in the hands of Providence. Could I have ordered it otherwise, I certainly should have chosen a different mother."

He smiled mournfully, and bidding me to lie down and keep quiet, resumed his tale.

"The delicate state of Lady Moncton's health precluding her from nursing her child, my mother was chosen as substitute, and the weakly infant was entrusted to her care. The noble mother was delighted with the attention which Rachel bestowed upon the child, and loaded her with presents. As to me, I was given into Dinah's charge, who felt small remorse in depriving me of my natural food, if anything in the shape of money was to be gained by the sacrifice. The physicians recommended change of air for Lady Moncton's health; and Sir Alexander fixed on Italy as the climate most likely to benefit his ailing and beloved wife.

"My mother was offered large sums to accompany them, which she steadfastly declined. Lady Moncton wept and entreated, but Rachel Mornington was resolute in her refusal. 'No money,' she said, 'should tempt her to desert her husband and child, much as she wished to oblige Lady Moncton.'

"The infant heir of Moncton was thriving under her care, and she seemed to love the baby, if possible, better than she did her own. Sir Alexander and the physician persuaded Lady Moncton, though she yielded most reluctantly to their wishes, to overcome her maternal solicitude, and leave her child with his healthy and affectionate nurse.

"She parted from the infant with many tears, bestowing upon him the most passionate caresses, and pathetically urging Rachel Mornington not to neglect the important duties she had solemnly promised to perform.

"Three months had scarcely elapsed before the young heir of Moncton was consigned to the family vault; and Sir Alexander and his wife were duly apprised by Robert Moncton, who was solicitor for the family, of the melancholy event. That this child did not come fairly by his death I have strong reasons for suspecting, from various conversations which I overheard when a child, pass between Robert Moncton, Dinah North, and my mother.

"The news of their son's death, as may well be imagined, was received by Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton with the most poignant grief; and six years elapsed before she and her husband revisited Moncton Park.

"My mother was just recovering from her confinement with a lovely little girl—the Alice, to whom you have often heard me allude—when Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton arrived at the Hall. They brought with them a delicate and beautiful infant of three months old.

"I can well remember Lady Moncton's first visit to the Lodge, to learn from my mother's own lips the nature of the disease which had consigned her son to his early grave. I recollect my mother telling her that the little George went to bed in perfect health, and died in a fit during the night, before medical aid could be procured. She shed some tears while she said this, and assured Lady Moncton that the baby's death had occasioned her as much grief as if he had been her own—that she would much rather that I had died than her dear nurse-child.

"I remember, as I leant against Dinah North's knees, thinking this very hard of my mother, and wondering why she should prefer Lady Moncton's son to me. But, from whatever cause her aversion sprang, she certainly never had any maternal regard for me.

"Lady Moncton drew me to her, and with her sweet, fair face bathed in tears, told my mother that I was a beautiful boy—that her darling would have been just my age and size, and that she could not help envying her her child. She patted my curly head, and kissed me repeatedly, and said that I must come often to the Hall and see her, and she would give me pretty toys, and teach me to read.

"Ah, how I loved her! Her kind, gentle voice was the first music I ever heard. How I loved to sit at her feet when she came to the cottage, and look up into her pale, calm face; and when she stooped down to kiss me, and her glossy ringlets mingled with mine, I would fling my arms about her slender neck, and whisper in a voice too low for my stern mother and Dinah to hear:

"'I love you a thousand, thousand times better than anything else in the world. Oh I how I wish I were your own little boy.'

"Then the bright tears would flow fast down her marble cheeks, and she would sigh so deeply, as she returned with interest my childish passionate caresses.

"Ah, Geoffrey, my childish heart spoke the truth. I loved that high-born, noble woman, better than I have since loved aught in this cold, bad world: at least, my affection for her was of a purer, holier character.

"My mother was taken home to the Hall, to act as wet nurse to little Margaret; and I remained at the cottage with my harsh, cross grandmother, who beat me without the slightest remorse for the most trifling faults, often cursing and wishing me dead, in the most malignant manner.

"My father, whom I seldom saw (for his occupation took him often from home, which was rendered too hot for comfort, by the temper of his mother-in-law), was invariably kind to me. When he came in from the stables he would tell me funny stories, and sing me jolly hunting songs; and what I liked still better, would give me a ride before him on the fine hunters he had under his care: promising that when I was old enough, I should take them airing round the park, instead of him.

"My poor father! I can see him before me now, with his frank, good-natured face, and laughing blue eyes: his stalwart figure, arrayed in his green velvet hunting-coat, buckskin breeches and top-boots; and the leather cap, round which his nut-brown hair clustered in thick curls; and which he wore so jauntily on one side of his head. Roger Mornington was quite a dandy in his way, and had belonged to a good old stock; but his father ran away when a boy, and went to sea, and disgraced his aristocratic friends; and Roger used to say, that he had all the gentlemanly propensities, minus the cash.

"He doted upon me. 'His dear little jockey!' as he used to call me; and I always ran out to meet him when he came home, with loud shouts of joy. But there came a night, when Roger Mornington did not return; and several days passed away, and he was at length found dead in a lonely part of the park. The high-spirited horse he rode had thrown him, and his neck was broken by the fall—and the horse not returning to the stables, but making off to the high road, no alarm had been excited at the absence of his rider.

"My mother was sincerely grieved for his death; he was a kind, indulgent husband to her; and it was the first severe pang of sorrow that my young heart had ever known.

"The day after his funeral, I was sitting crying beside the fire, holding my untasted breakfast on my knee.

"'Don't take on so, child,' said my mother, wiping the tears from her own eyes. 'All the tears in the world won't bring back the dead.'

"'And will dear daddy never come home again?' I sobbed. 'Ah, I have no one to love me now, but the dear good lady up at the Hall!'

"'Don't I love you, Philip?'

"'No,' I replied scornfully, 'you don't love me, and you never did.'

"'How do you know that?'

"'Because you never kiss me, and take me up in your lap, as Lady Moncton does, and look at me with kind eyes, and call me your dear boy. No, no, when I come for you to love me, you push me away, and cry angrily, 'Get away, you little pest! don't trouble me!' and grandmother is always cursing me, and wishing me dead. Do you call that love?'

"I never shall forget the ghastly smile that played about her beautiful stern mouth, as she said unconsciously, aloud to herself: 'It is not the child, but the voice of God that speaks through him. How can I expect him to love me?'

"How I wondered what she meant. For years that mysterious sentence haunted my dreams.

"I was soon called to endure a heavier grief. Lady Moncton's health daily declined. She grew worse—was no longer able to go out in the carriage, and the family physician went past our house many times during the day on his way to the Hall.

"Old Dinah and my mother were constantly absent attending upon the sick lady, and I was left in charge of a poor woman who came over to the cottage to clean the house, and take care of little Alice, while my mother was away.

"One day my mother came hastily in. She was flushed with walking fast, and seemed much agitated. She seized upon me, washed my face and hands, and began dressing me in my Sunday suit.

"'A strange whim this, in a dying woman,' said she, to the neighbour, 'to have such a craze for seeing other people's children. Giving all this trouble for nothing.'

"After a good deal of pushing and shaking she dragged me off with her to the Hall, and I was introduced into the solemn state chamber, where my kind and noble friend was calmly breathing her last.

"Ah, Geoffrey, how well I can recall that parting hour, and the deep impression it made on my mind. There, beneath that sumptuous canopy, lay the young, the beautiful—still beautiful in death, with Heaven's own smile lighted upon her pale serene face. God had set his holy seal upon her brow. The Merciful, who delighteth in mercy, had marked her for his own.

"Ah, what a fearful contrast to that angelic face was the dark fierce countenance of Dinah North, scowling down upon the expiring saint, and holding in her arms the sinless babe of that sweet mother.

"Rachel Mornington's proud handsome features wore their usual stern expression, but her face was very pale, and her lips firmly compressed. She held, or rather grasped me by the hand, as she led me up to the bed.

"'Is that my little Philip?' said the dying woman in her usual sweet tones. But the voice was so enfeebled by disease as to be scarcely audible.

"'It is my son, my lady,' replied Rachel, and her voice slightly faltered.

"'What says my love?' asked Sir Alexander, raising his head from the bed-clothes in which his face had been buried to conceal his tears.

"'Lift the boy up to me, dearest Alick, that I may kiss him once more before I die.'

"Sir Alexander lifted me into the bed beside her, and raised her up gently with his other arm, so that both she and I were encircled in his embrace. My young heart beat audibly. I heard Lady Moncton whisper to her husband.

"'Alexander, he is your child. Ah, do not deny it now. You know, I love you too well to be jealous of you. Just tell me the honest truth?'

"A crimson glow spread over her husband's face, as, in the same hurried whisper, he replied, 'Dearest Emilia, the likeness is purely accidental. I pledge to you my solemn word, that he is not my son.'

"The poor lady looked doubtingly in his face. I saw a bitter scornful smile pass over the rigid features of my mother; whilst I, foolish child, was flattered with the presumption that I might possibly be Sir Alexander's son.

"'Do not cry Philip, my darling boy!' said Lady Moncton, holding me close to her breast. 'Sir Alexander will be a father to you for my sake. I am very happy, my dear child; I am going to Heaven, where my own sweet baby went before me; I shall meet him there. Be a good boy, and love your mother, and your pretty little sister; and above all, my dear child, love your Saviour, who can lead you through the dark valley of the shadow of death, as gently as he is now leading me. Should you live to be a man,' added she faintly, 'remember this hour, and the lady who loved and adopted you as her son.'

"Then turning slowly towards her husband, she wound her thin transparent hands about his neck; breathed a few words of love in his ear, unheard by aught save him and me; and reclining her meek pale face upon his manly breast, expired without a struggle.

"A deep solemn pause succeeded. I was too awe-struck to weep. The deep convulsive sobs which burst from the heart of the bereaved husband warned intruders to retire. My mother led me from the chamber of death, and as we took our way in silence across the park, the solemn toll of the death-bell floated through its beautiful glades.

"'Mother,' said I; clinging to her dress. 'What is that?'

"'The voice of death, Philip. Did you not hear that bell toll for your father? It will one day toll for me—for you—for all.'

"'How I wish, mother, that that day would soon come.'

"'Silly boy! Do you wish us all dead?'

"'Not you mother, nor granny. You may both live as long as you like. But when it tolls for me, I shall be in Heaven with dear Lady Moncton.'

"Rachel started, stopped suddenly, and fixed upon me a mournful gaze, the only glance of tenderness which ever beamed upon me from those brilliant, stern eyes.

"'Poor child! you may have your wish gratified only too soon. Did Robert Moncton or Dinah North know of your existence, the green sod would not lie long unpiled upon your head. You think I do not love you, Philip!' she cried, passionately—'I do, I do, my poor child. I have saved your life, though you think me so cross and stern.'

"She knelt down beside me on the grass, flung her arms round me, and pressed me convulsively to her bosom, whilst big bright tears fell fast over my wondering countenance.

"'Mother,' I sobbed, 'I do love you sometimes—always, when you speak kindly, to me, as you do now; and I love dear little Alice—ah, so much! my heart is full of love—I cannot tell you how much.'

"Rachel redoubled her weeping—a step sounded behind us—she sprang to her feet, as Dinah North, with the little Margaret Moncton in her arms, joined us.

"'What are you doing there, Rachel?' growled forth the hard-hearted woman. 'Are you saying your prayers, or admiring the beauty of your son. Hang the boy! though he is your child, I never can feel the least interest in him.'

"'Is that his fault or yours?' said my mother, coldly.

"'Ah, mine, of course,' said Dinah, bitterly. 'We are not accountable for our likes or dislikes. I hate the boy!'

"I looked at her with defiance in my eyes, and she answered my look with a sharp blow on the cheek. 'Don't look at me, young dog, in that insolent way. I have tamed prouder spirits than yours, and I'll tame yours yet.'

"My mother gave her an angry glance, but said nothing, and we walked slowly on. At last Dinah turned to her and said:

"'Rachel, this should be a proud and joyful day to you.'

"'In what respect, mother?'

"'Your rival's dead; you have gained your liberty, and Sir Alexander is free to choose another wife. Do you understand me now?'

"'Perfectly; but that dream is past,' said my mother, mournfully. 'Sir Alexander loved that dead angel too well, to place a woman of low degree in her place. If he did not unite his destiny to mine when I was young and beautiful, and he in the romance of life, don't flatter yourself into the belief that he will do it now. I know human nature better.'

"'You don't know your own power,' said Dinah; 'beauty is stronger than rank and fortune, and you are still handsome enough to do a deal of mischief among the men, if you only set about it in the right way.'

"'Peace! mother. I need none of your teaching. I learned to love Mornington, and ceased to love Sir Alexander. Nay, I am really sorry for the death of poor Lady Moncton, and should despise her husband if he could forget her for one like me.'

"'Fool! idiot!' exclaimed Dinah, in a tone of exasperation. 'You have ever stood in the way of your own fortune. Had you not been so over squeamish you might have changed the children, and made your own son the heir of the Moncton. Had I been at home, this surely would have been done. This was all the good I got by leaving you to the guidance of a handsome, good-natured fool like Mornington.'

"'Mother, speak more respectfully of the dead,' said Rachel. 'He was good, at any rate, which we are not. It was my intention to have changed the children, but God ordered it otherwise,' she continued, with a convulsive laugh. 'However, I have had my revenge, but it has cost me many a blighting thought.'

"'I don't understand you,' said Dinah, drawing close up before us, and fixing a keen look of inquiry on her daughter.

"'Nor do I mean that you should,' coldly retorted Rachel. 'My secret is worth keeping. You will know it one day too soon.'

"We had now reached home, and the presence of the strange woman put an end to this mysterious conversation. Though only a boy of eight years old, it struck me as so remarkable, that I could never forget it; and now, when years have gone over me, I can distinctly recall every word and look which passed between those sinful women. Alas, that one should be so near to me.

"But you are sleepy, Geoffrey. The rest of my mournful history will help to wile away the tedium of the long to-morrow."



CHAPTER XVI.

GEORGE HARRISON CONTINUES HIS HISTORY.

"The sorrows of my childhood were great," continued George, "but still they were counterbalanced by many joys. In spite of the disadvantages under which I laboured, my gay, elastic spirit surmounted them all.

"Naturally fearless and fond of adventure, I never shrunk from difficulties, but felt a chivalrous pride in endeavouring to overcome them. If I could not readily do this at the moment, I lived on in the hope that the day would arrive when by perseverance and energy, I should ultimately conquer.

"I have lived to prove that of which I early felt a proud conviction; that it is no easy matter for a wicked person, let him be ever so clever and cunning, to subdue a strong mind, which dares to be true to itself.

"Dinah North felt my superiority even as a child, and the mortifying consciousness increased her hatred. She feared the lofty spirit of the boy whom her tyrannical temper could not tame; who laughed at her threats, and defied her malice, and who, when freed from her control, enjoyed the sweets of liberty in a tenfold degree.

"Sir Alexander put me to a school in the neighbourhood, where I learned the first rudiments of my mother tongue, writing, reading, and simple arithmetic. The school closed at half-past four o'clock in the afternoon; when I returned to the Lodge, for so the cottage was called in which we resided, and which stood just within the park at the head of the noble avenue of old oaks and elms that led to the Hall. Two of the loveliest, sweetest children nature ever formed were always at the Park gates watching for my coming, when they ran to meet me with exclamations of delight, and we wandered forth hand in hand to look for wild fruit and flowers among the bosky dells and romantic uplands of that enchanting spot.

"Alice Mornington and Margaretta Moncton were nearly the same age, born at least within three months of each other, and were six years younger than I. Strikingly different in their complexion, appearance and disposition, the two little girls formed a beautiful contrast to each other. Alice was exquisitely fair, with large, brilliant, blue eyes, like my poor mother's, and long silken ringlets of sunny hair which curled naturally upon her snow-white shoulders. She was tall and stately for her age, and might have been a princess, for the noble dignity of her carriage would not have disgraced a court.

"She was all life and spirit. The first in every sport, the last to yield to fatigue or satiety. Her passions were warm and headstrong; her temper irritable; her affections intense and constant, and her manners so frank and winning that while conscious that she had a thousand faults, you could but admire and love her.

"A stranger might have thought her capricious, but her love of variety arose more from the exuberance of her fancy than from any love of change. She was a fair and happy child, the idol of her fond brother's heart, till one baneful passion marred what God and nature made so beautiful.

"Margaret Moncton, outwardly, was less gifted than Alice Mornington, but she far surpassed her foster-sister in mental endowments. Her stature was small, almost diminutive. Her features neither regular nor handsome except the dark eyes, the beauty of which I think I never saw surpassed.

"Her complexion was pure but very pale, and her lofty, thoughtful brow wore a serious expression from infancy. In our wildest revels on the green sward, you seldom heard Margaret laugh; but when pleased, she had a most bewitching smile, which lighted up her calm countenance till every feature beamed with an inexpressible grace. Her face was the mirror of purity and truth, and you felt, whilst looking upon it, that it was impossible for Margaret to deceive.

"How could I be unhappy, while I had these two beautiful children for my daily companions, and the most charming rural scenery at my immediate command?

"Sir Alexander came every day to the Lodge to see his child, and always lavished upon me the most flattering marks of his favour. His manner to my mother was, at first, shy and reserved. This wore off by degrees, and before two years had expired, from the death of his wife, his visits became so constant, and his attentions so marked, that Dinah once more began to entertain hopes that her ambitious schemes for her daughter might yet be realized. These hopes were only frustrated by the sudden death of the object for whom they were cherished. My mother, for some weeks, had complained of an acute pain in her left side, just under her breast, and the medicines she procured from the doctor afforded her no relief. She grew nervous and apprehensive of the consequences, but as her personal appearance was not at all injured by her complaint, Dinah ridiculed her fears.

"'You may laugh as you please, mother,' said she, the very day before she died, 'but I feel this pain will be the death of me—and I so unfit to die,' she added, with a deep sigh.

"'Nonsense!' returned Dinah, 'you will wear your wedding clothes a second time, before we put on your shroud.'

"My mother only answered with another deep-drawn sigh. She passed a sleepless night—the doctor was sent for in the morning, gave her a composing draught, and told her to make her mind easy, for she had nothing to fear.

"I always slept in the same bed with my mother. That night I had a bad cold and could not sleep; but knowing that she was not well, I lay quite still, fearing to disturb her. She slept well during the early part of the night. The clock had just struck twelve when she rose up in the bed, and called Dinah to come to her quickly. Her voice sounded hollow and tremulous.

"'What ails you, Rachel?' grumbled the hard woman; 'disturbing a body at this hour of the night.'

"'Be it night or morning,' said my mother, 'I am dying, and this hour will be my last.'

"'Then in the name of God! send for the doctor.'

"'It is too late now. He can do me no good: I am going fast; but there is something on my mind, mother, which I must tell you before I go. Sit down beside me on the bed, whilst I have strength left to do it, and swear to me mother, that you will not abuse the confidence I am about to repose in you.'

"Dinah nodded assent.

"'That will not do. I must have your solemn word—your oath!'

"'What good will that do, Rachel? no oath can bind me—I believe in no God, and fear no devil!'

"This confession was accompanied by a hideous, cackling laugh. Rachel groaned aloud.

"'Oh, mother! there is a God—an avenging God! Could you feel what I now feel, and see what I now see, like the devils, you would believe and tremble. You will know it one day, and like me, find out that repentance comes too late. I will, however, tell the plain truth, and your diabolical policy, will, doubtless, suggest the use which may be made of such an important secret.'

"There was a long pause, after which some sentences passed between them, in such a low voice, that I could not distinctly hear them; at last I heard my mother say,

"'You never saw these children, or you would not wonder that my heart so clave to that fair babe. You thought that I accepted Robert Moncton's bribe, and put the other child out of the way.'

"'And did you not?' cried the eager old woman, breathless with curiosity.

"'I took the bribe. But the child died a natural death, and I was saved the commission of a frightful crime, which you and your master were constantly writing to me, to urge me to commit. Now, listen, mother.'

"What she said was in tones so low, that, though I strained every nerve to listen, as I should have done, had it been a ghost story, or any tale of horror, the beating of my own heart frustrated all my endeavours.

"Rachel's communication appeared to astonish her mother. Her dark, wrinkled brows contracted until not a particle of the eyes were visible, and she sat for a long while in deep thought, rocking herself to and fro on the bed, whilst the dying woman regarded her with expanded eyes and raised hands, locked tightly together. At last she spoke.

"'Dinah! make no ill use of my confidence, or there will come a day of vengeance for both you and me. What shall we gain by being tools in the hands of a wicked man like Robert Moncton. Why should we sell our souls for naught, to do his dirty work.'

"'Not to serve him will I do aught to injure the child. No, no. Dinah North is not such a fool. If I do it to gratify my own revenge, that's another thing. I have this bad, bold Robert in my power. This secret will be a fortune in itself—will extort from his mean, avaricious soul, a portion of his ill-gotten wealth. Ha, my child! you did well and wisely, and may die in peace, without the stain of blood upon your soul.'

"Rachel shook her head despondingly.

"'There is no peace, saith my God, for the wicked. My soul consented to the crime, and whilst the thought was uppermost in my heart, the bolt of the Almighty smote me, and my resolution wavered; but, the guilt, at this moment, appears to me the same. It is a dreadful thing to die without hope. Where is Alice?'

"'Sleeping. Shall I bring her to you?'

"'Let her sleep. I feel sleepy, too. Smooth my pillow, mother. Give me a little water. I feel easy now. Perhaps, I shall awake in the morning better.'

"The pillows were arranged—the draught given; but the sleeper never awoke again.

"Her mysterious communications, which only came by halves to my ears, filled my mind with vague conjectures, and I cannot help thinking, to this hour, that the young heir of Moncton came to an untimely death, and she blamed herself so bitterly for not having me supply his place.

"Stern as my mother had been during her life, her death was a severe blow to us all, especially to Alice and me; as it removed from our humble home an object most dear to us both, the little lady of the manor, to whom we had ever given the endearing name of sister.

"After Margaret left us, how dull did all our pastimes appear. Alice and I wandered sadly and silently among our old haunts; the song of the birds cheered us no longer; the flowers seemed less fair; the murmur of the willow-crowned brook less musical; the presiding genius of the place had vanished; we felt that we were alone.

"I had now reached my fourteenth year, and Sir Alexander, true to the promise made to his wife, sent me to an excellent school in the city of York. Here I made such good use of my time, that before three years had elapsed I was second boy in the head class, and had won the respect of the master and ushers. My munificent patron was greatly pleased with the progress I had made, and hinted at sending me to college, if I continued to deserve his good opinion.

"Ah, Geoffrey! those were halcyon days, when I returned to spend the vacations at the Lodge, and found myself ever a welcome visitor at the Hall. With a proud heart I recounted to Sir Alexander, all my boyish triumphs at school, and the good baronet listened to my enthusiastic details with the most intense interest, and fought all his juvenile battles over again, with boyish ardour, to the infinite delight of our admiring audience, Margaret and Alice. The latter spent most of her time with Miss Moncton, who was so much attached to her foster-sister, and shed so many tears at parting from her, that Sir Alexander yielded to her earnest request for Alice to remain with her, and the young heiress and the huntsman's blooming daughter were seldom apart. Miss Moncton's governess, an amiable and highly accomplished woman, took as much pains in teaching Alice as she did in superintending the education of her high-born pupil. The beautiful girl acquired her tasks so rapidly, and with such an intense desire for improvement, that Sir Alexander declared, that she beat his Madge hollow.

"Dinah North exulted in the growing charms of her grand-daughter. If the old woman regarded anything on earth with affection, it was the tall, fair girl so unlike herself. And Alice, too—I have often wondered how it were possible—Alice loved with the most ardent affection, that forbidding-looking, odious creature.

"To me, since the death of my mother, she had been civil but reserved—never addressing me without occasion required—and I neither sought nor cared for her regard.

"It was on the return of one of those holidays, when I returned home full of eager anticipations of happiness, of joyous days spent at the Park in company with Margaret and Alice, that I first beheld that artful villain, Robert Moncton.

"It was a lovely July evening. The York coach set me down at the Park gates, and I entered the pretty cottage with my scanty luggage on my back, and found the lawyer engaged in earnest conversation with my grandmother.

"Struck with the appearance of the man, which at first sight is very remarkable, I paused for some minutes on the threshold, unobserved by the parties. Like you, Geoffrey, I shall never forget the impression his countenance made upon me. The features so handsome, the colouring so fine, the person that of a finished gentleman; and yet, all this pleasing combination of form and face marred by that cold, cruel, merciless eye. Its expression so dead, so joyless, sent a chill through my whole frame, and I shrank from encountering its icy gaze, and was about quietly to retire by a back door, when my attention was arrested by the following brief conversation.

"'I should like to see the lad.'

"'We expect him home from school by the coach to-night.'

"'What age is he?'

"'Just sixteen.'

"'What does Sir Alexander mean to do for him?'

"'Send him to college, I believe. He is very fond of him.'

"'Humph!—and then to London to make a lawyer of him. Leave him to me, Dinah, I will make a solicitor of him in earnest. I have taught many a bold heart and reckless hand to solicit the charity of others.'

"'Devil doubt you!' rejoined the fiend with a hollow, cackling laugh. 'But you may find the boy one too many for you, with all your cunning. He'll not start at shadows, nor stumble over straws. I have tamed many a proud spirit in my day, but this boy defies my power. I fear and hate him, but I cannot crush him. But hush!—here he is.'

"I bustled forward and flung my portmanteau heavily to the ground. 'How are you, grandmother? How's Alice? All well, I hope?'

"'Do you see the gentleman, Philip?'

"'Gentleman! I beg his pardon. A fine evening, sir; but very hot and dusty travelling by the coach. I have not tasted anything since breakfast, grandmother; and I am tired and hungry.'

"'Yours is the hungry age,' said the lawyer, staring me full in the face, as if he was taking a proof impression for legal purposes. His cold, searching look brought the blood to my cheeks, and I returned the impertinent scrutiny with a glance of defiance.

"He rose; nodded meaningly to Dinah, bowed slightly to me, and left the cottage.

"The next minute Alice was in my arms.

"'Brother! dear, darling brother! welcome, welcome a thousand times.'

"Oh, what a contrast to the dark, joyless countenance of Dinah North, was the cherub face of Alice—laughing in the irresistible glee of her young heart. I forgot my long, tiresome journey, dust, heat, and hunger, as I pulled her on my knee, and covered her rosy cheeks with kisses.

"'What news since I left, Alice?'

"'Sad news, Philip. Dear Madge is in London on a visit to her aunt; and there is a dull, cross boy staying at the Hall, with a very hard name—Theophilus Moncton—Margaret's cousin. But he is nothing like her, though he calls her his little wife. But Madge says that she will never have him, though his father is very rich.'

"'I am sure you will hate him, Philip, for he calls us beggar's brats, and wonders that Sir Alexander suffers his daughter to play with us. I told him that he was very rude; and that he had better not affront you, for you would soon teach him better manners. But he only sneered at me, and said, "My father's a gentleman. He never suffers me to associate with people beneath us. Your brother had better keep out of my way, or I will order my groom to horsewhip him." I felt very angry and began to cry, and Sir Alexander came in and reproved the boy, and told me I had better return to grandmamma until Mr. Moncton and his son had left the Hall.'

"While little Alice, ran on thus to me, I felt stung to the quick; and all the pride of my nature warring within. For the first time in my life, I became painfully conscious of the difference of rank which existed between me and my benefactor; I was restless and unhappy, and determined not to go near the Hall, until Sir Alexander bade me do so himself.

"But days passed, and I saw nothing of the good Baronet, and Alice and I were obliged to content ourselves by roaming through all the old beloved haunts, and talking of Margaret. We were returning one evening through the fine avenue of oaks, which led to the front entrance of the demesne, when a pony rushed past us at full gallop. A boyish impulse, tempted me to give a loud halloo, in order to set the beautiful animal off at its wildest speed. In a few minutes we met a lad of my own age, booted and spurred, with a whip in his hand, running in the same direction the pony had taken. He was in a towering passion, and coming up to us, he cried out, with a menacing air—

"'You impudent rascal! how dared you to shout in that way, to frighten my horse, when you saw me endeavouring to catch him?'

"'I saw no such thing,' I replied, drily. 'I admired the pony, and shouted to see how much faster he could run.'

"'You deserve a good thrashing,' quoth he. 'Go and catch the horse for me, or I will complain to Sir Alexander of your conduct.'

"'Sir Alexander is not my master, neither are you. I shall do no such thing.'

"'Do it instantly!' stamping with his foot.

"'Do it yourself. You look quite as fit for a groom as I do.'

"I tried to pass him, but he stepped into the centre of the path, and hindered me. To avoid a collision was now impossible.

"'You insolent young blackguard!' he cried, 'do you know that you are speaking to a gentleman?'

"'Indeed!' I said, with a provoking smile. 'I ought to thank you for the information, for I never should have suspected the fact.'

"With a yell of rage, he struck me in the face with the butt end of his whip. I sprang upon him with the strength of a tiger, and seizing his puny form in my arms, I dashed him beneath my feet, and after bestowing upon him sundry hearty kicks, rejoined the terrified Alice, and left Mr. Theophilus Moncton, to gather up his fallen dignity, and make the best of his way home to the Hall.

"This frolic cost me far more than I expected. The next morning, Sir Alexander rode over to the Lodge, and severely reprimanded me for my conduct; and ended his lecture, by affirming in positive terms, that if I did not beg his young relative's pardon, he would withdraw his favour from me for ever.

"This, I proudly refused to do—and the Baronet as proudly told me, 'To see his face no more!'

"I looked sorrowfully up as he said this. The tears were in my eyes, for I loved him very much—but my heart was too full to speak.

"He leant down from his horse, expecting my answer. I was silent: the colour mounted to his cheeks; he waited a few minutes longer; I made no sign, and he struck the spurs into his horse, and rode quickly away.

"'There goes my only friend!' I cried. 'Curse the mean wretch, who robbed me of my friend! I only regret that I did not kill him!'

"Thus for one boyish act of indiscretion I was flung friendless upon the world. Yet, Geoffrey, were the thing to do again, I feel that I could not, and would not, act otherwise.

"Time has convinced me that Robert Moncton, acting with his usual policy, had made Sir Alexander ashamed of his connection with us, and he gladly availed himself of the first plausible excuse to cast me off. Alice deeply lamented my disgrace; but the whole affair afforded mirth to my grandmother, who seemed greatly to enjoy my unfortunate triumph over the boy with the hard name."



CHAPTER XVII.

HARRISON FINDS A FRIEND IN NEED.

"During my residence at school in York, my master was often visited by a wealthy merchant who bore the same name with myself. This man was an old bachelor, very eccentric, but universally esteemed as one of the most benevolent of men. He was present at one of the school examinations in which I took many prizes, and asking my name he found out that he was related to my father, and bestowed upon me many marks of favour, such as presenting me with useful books, and often asking me over to his house to dine, or spend the evening.

"Flattered by his attentions to me, I had lost no opportunity of increasing our friendship, and I determined to apply to him in my present distress.

"I was a perfect novice in the art of letter-writing, never having penned an epistle in my life, and after making several attempts with which I was perfectly disgusted, I determined to walk over to the city and make my application in person to Mr. Mornington.

"Without communicating my intentions to Alice, I carefully tied up a change of linen in a silk handkerchief, and with the mighty sum of five shillings in my pocket, commenced my pedestrian journey of thirty odd miles.

"I started in the morning by day-break, and without meeting with any particular adventures on the road, I arrived at six o'clock in the evening, foot-sore and weary at the rich man's door. When there, my heart, which had been as stout as a lion's on the road, failed me, and I sat down upon the broad stone steps that led up to the house, sorely depressed and uncertain what course to take.

"This I knew would not do: the night was coming on, and the rain, which had threatened all day, now began to fall fast. Making a desperate effort, I sprang up the steps, and gave a gentle knock, so gentle that it was unheard; and unable to summon sufficient courage to repeat the experiment, I resumed my seat until some more fortunate applicant should seek admittance.

"Not many minutes elapsed before the quick loud rap of the postman brought Mrs. Jolly, the housekeeper, to the door; and edging close to him of the red jacket, I asked in a tremulous voice—'If Mr. Mornington was at home?'

"'Why, dearee me, master Philip, is that you?' said the kind woman, elevating her spectacles: 'who would have thought of seeing you t'night?'

"'Who, indeed! But, my dear Mrs. Jolly, is Mr. Mornington disengaged, and can I see him?'

"'He is t'home, and you can speak to him, but not just now. He's to his dinner, and doan't like to be disturbed. But come this way, an I'll tell him you are here.'

"'Who's that you are speaking to, Mrs. Jolly?' cried my worthy old friend as we passed the dining-room door, through which the footmen were carrying an excellent dinner to table.

"'Only Mr. Philip, sir.'

"'Mr. Philip!' and the next moment, the old man came out and grasped me warmly by the hand. 'Why, lad, what brings you back to school so soon—tired of play already, hey?'

"'No, sir. I fear play will soon tire of me. I am to go to school no more.'

"'Sorry to hear that, Phil. Just the time when instruction would be of the most service to you. You would learn more in the ensuing year, than in all that have gone before it. Leave school! no, no, I must see you the head boy in it yet.'

"'That was my ambition, sir. But you know I am only a poor orphan lad, entirely dependent on the bounty of Sir Alexander Moncton. I have offended this gentleman, and he will do no more for me; and I walked from the Park to-day to ask your advice as to what course I had better pursue, and in what way I am most likely to earn my own living.'

"The old gentleman looked grave.

"'Offended Sir Alexander? You must have acted very imprudently to do that, and he so kind to you. Walked all the way from Moncton. Bless the boy, how tired and hungry you must be! Sit down, young Philip Mornington, and get your dinner with old Philip Mornington; and we will talk over these matters by and by.'

"Gladly I accepted the dear old gentleman's hearty invitation. I had not tasted food since early dawn, and was so outrageously hungry and eat with such a right good will, that he often stopped and laughed heartily at my voracity.

"'Well done, Philip! Don't be ashamed: hold in your plate for another slice of beef. Thirty miles of hard walking at this season of the year, may well give a boy of sixteen, strong and healthy like you, a good appetite.'

"After the cloth was drawn, and the old gentleman had refreshed me with a couple of glasses of excellent wine, obedient to his request I related to him my adventure with Theophilus Moncton in the park, and its unfortunate results.

"Instead of blaming me, the whole affair seemed greatly to amuse the hearty old man. He fell back in his chair, and chuckled and laughed until he declared that his sides ached.

"'And was it for punishing that arrogant puppy as he deserved, that Sir Alexander cast you, my fine fellow, from his favour?'

"'He might have forgiven that. It was for refusing so positively his commands, in not asking young Moncton's pardon.'

"'If you had obeyed him in this instance, Philip, you would have forfeited my good opinion for ever, and would have deserved to have been kicked by Sir Alexander's lackeys for your meanness. Don't look so cast down, boy. I honour you for your self-respect and independence. You have other friends besides Sir Alexander Moncton, who will not forsake you for taking your own part like a man. You shall go to school yet—ay, and become the head scholar in Dr. Trimmer's head class, and finish your education at Oxford, or my name is not Philip Mornington.'

"How well did this excellent, warm-hearted, generous man perform his promise; how ill I profited by the education he gave me, and the wealth he bequeathed to me at his death, the subsequent portion of my history will reveal.

"I went to school at the end of the vacation, but as a day-boarder; Mr. Mornington, having told me to consider his house as my future home.

"A boy who came from our village to Dr. Trimmer's school, told me that Sir Alexander's passion soon cooled, and he rode over to the Lodge a week after I left, to inquire after his old pet, and was surprised and exasperated to find the bird flown, and taken by the hand by a man for whom he had a great personal antipathy; who had ever opposed him in politics, and had twice carried an election against him.

"There was enough of revenge in my composition to feel glad that Sir Alexander was annoyed at my good-fortune.

"The next year saw me at college, with a handsome allowance from my generous patron, to enable me to establish my claims as a gentleman. I will pass over the three years I spent at this splendid abode of learning and science.

"The gratitude I felt for all Mr. Mornington had done for me, for a long time restrained me from indulging in the wild excesses which disgraced the conduct of most of the young men with whom I associated. This reluctance, however, to do and countenance evil, gradually wore off, and I became as wild and dissipated as my companions.

"I formed many agreeable acquaintances at college, but had only one who really deserved the name of a friend. Kind, gentle and studious, Cornelius Laurie (for so I shall call him) mingled very little with his fellow students: his health being delicate, he spent most of his leisure hours in walking, an exercise of which he was particularly fond, and in which generally participated.

"His mild, intelligent countenance first won my regard. I sought his acquaintance, found him easy of access, friendly and communicative, and always anxious to oblige every one as far as lay in his power. Commanding an excellent income, he was always ready to assist the improvident who had expended theirs, and with such a disposition, you may be certain that the calls upon his purse were by no means few. He formed a strong attachment to me, and we usually spent most of our time together.

"Cornelius invited me to pass the Christmas vacation with him in town. When at home he resided with his aunt, a widow lady who had brought up his only sister, who had been left an orphan at a very early age. Charlotte Laurie was several years younger than her brother; and in speaking of her he had always told me that she was a very pretty girl, but I was not prepared to behold the beautiful and fascinating creature to whom I was introduced.

"Charlotte Laurie was a child of nature, without display or affectation; conscious of her great personal attractions only so far as to render her more agreeable—for what beautiful woman was ever ignorant of her charms? My pretty Lotty knew perfectly the power they gave her over the restless and inconstant heart of man, but she did not abuse it.

"My passions, Geoffrey, by nature, are as warm and impetuous as your own, and they soon betrayed me into love; and I thought that the fair girl to whom I had lost my heart was not insensible to the passion she had inspired. But when I recalled my obscure parentage, of which Cornelius was perfectly ignorant; and the uncertainty of my future prospects, I felt that it would be dishonourable in me to advance my suit to the young lady. To remain in the house and keep silent upon a subject so important to my peace, I found would be impossible; and I feigned a letter from Mr. Mornington, whom I called my uncle, requiring my immediate presence in York.

"My departure caused great regret to the family. Cornelius remonstrated; Mrs. H—— questioned the necessity of my journey; Charlotte said nothing, but left the room in tears. Strongly tempted as I was to stay, I remained firm to my original purpose, and bade adieu to my amiable friends, without breathing a word even to Cornelius of my attachment for his sister.

"On my way to York I called at my old home, and was received with the most lively demonstrations of joy by Alice, whom I found a blooming girl of fifteen. Old Dinah told me, as she scowled at my handsome dress and improved appearance, 'That she supposed I was now too fine a gentleman to call her grandmother, or Alice sister?'

"I assured her that my improved circumstances had not changed my heart, nor made me ashamed of my old friends. Something, I fear, in my looks, contradicted my words, for she turned from me with a scornful smile:

"'The world,' said she, 'was a good school for teaching people the art of falsehood.'

"Her sarcasms made me very uncomfortable—for my conscience convicted me of their truth—and turning to Alice I begged her to tell me the news, for I was certain a great deal must have happened in the neighbourhood during the four years I had been absent.

"'No,' said Alice; 'we go on much as usual. Sir Alexander and Margaret are very kind to me, and I go every day up to the Hall. But she is Miss Moncton now, and I am plain Alice Mornington. Mr. Theophilus is often there; and he is so much improved, Philip, you would never know him. He is no longer proud and disagreeable, but so affable and kind, and always sees me safe home to the Lodge. People say that he is to marry Miss Moncton; but I don't believe a word of it. He does not love her I am certain; for he told me so a few days ago; and that he thought me a thousand times handsomer than his cousin!'

"While Alice ran on thus, I kept my eyes fixed upon her beautiful face; and from the heightening of her colour when speaking of Theophilus, I was convinced that young as she was, she was not insensible to his flattery. Anxious to warn her of her danger, I drew her arm through mine, and we strolled together into the park.

"'Dear Alice,' said I, affectionately; 'do you love your brother as well as you used to do in years long past?'

"'Philip, do you doubt my love?' she answered, reproachfully.

"'Not in the least, Alice. I know your heart to be warm and true; but years make great changes. Four years have fled away since we met, and you are nearly grown into a woman. Perhaps you will be angry with me if I venture to give you a little brotherly advice.'

"'Not without you scold me too much.'

"'My lecture, Alice, I will confine to a few words. Do not listen, dear child, to the flattering speeches of Theophilus Moncton. He means you no good.'

"'How can you know that?' she said, quickly.

"'From the general character which the man bears. From my experience of him when a boy. Avoid his company; he means to deceive you.'

"'Philip, you wrong him, indeed, you do!' she cried, with flashing eyes. 'He never talks to me of love, he only seeks to be my friend. I am too young to think of love. I don't know what being in love is—but I do feel very grateful to one so much richer and better than me, and who is heir to all these beautiful groves, and that fine old Hall, taking such an interest in my welfare—particularly,' she added, with great emphasis on her words, 'after he received such unworthy treatment from a brother of mine.'

"'You surely do not mean what you say, Alice?'

"'I never say what I do not mean; and if you come back to us, Philip, only to quarrel with us, you had better have stayed away.'

"For a few minutes I felt terribly annoyed; but when I recollected that these words fell from the lips of a spoilt child, I restrained my anger, in the hope of saving her from the ruin I feared might be impending over her.

"'Alice, you are a simple, little girl; as such I forgive you. You are not aware of the danger to which you are exposed. Young people are so ignorant of the treachery of the world, and so confident in their own strength to resist temptation, that they easily fall into the snares laid for them by wicked and designing men. If you persist in receiving the attentions of this man, who would consider it the utmost degradation to make you his wife, I, as your brother and natural protector, will consider it my duty to remove you from this place.'

"'I will not go!' she cried; stopping suddenly and looking me in the face with an air of defiance. 'You are not your own master yet, much less mine. I shall remain here with my dear, old grandmother, as long as she lives. And let me tell you, Mr. Philip, I am as competent to manage my own affairs as you are!'

"Could this be Alice?

"I looked at her, and looked again. The beauty of her countenance seemed changed. I turned from her with a deep sigh.

"'Oh, Alice, sister Alice! I tremble for you; so young and so self-willed. This is not my Alice, the happy, confiding Alice, who once loved me so tenderly.'

"'I did love you, Philip, very much,' she replied, in a softened voice; 'but how was my love returned? You quarrelled with the only friend we had in the world. One, too, who had done so much for us. To whose bounty we were indebted for a home and daily bread; for the clothes we wore, for the instruction we received—who treated us in every respect more like his own children, than the poor recipients of his noble generosity. You forgot all this. You insolently refused to apologize to his young relative, the heir of his title and wealth, for having grossly insulted him, and left your home and his protection without bidding this dear sister, for whose well-doing you are so deeply concerned, and who shared in your disgrace, one short farewell.'

"'Alice—Alice!'

"'Hush, sir; hear me to the end, if you please. You acted more ungratefully still, when you sought employment from one of Sir Alexander's bitterest enemies; and never wrote a single line either to your injured patron or to us. Was this love? Young as I am, Philip Mornington, I could not have been guilty of such baseness. I despise your conduct; and advice comes very ill from a person who could be guilty of such.'

"She turned haughtily away; and I, Geoffrey, I stood overwhelmed with confusion and remorse. I had never seen my conduct in this light before. I had all along imagined myself the injured party, and looked upon Sir Alexander as an unreasonable persecutor. But I felt at that moment, as I stood humbled before that proud girl, that I had not acted right—that some concession was due on my part to the man from whom I had received so many benefits; and but for very shame I would have sought his presence, acknowledged my error, and entreated his pardon.

"Oh, why does this stubborn pride so often stand between us and our best intentions. I let the moment pass, and my heart remained true to its stern determination, not to yield one inch of what I falsely termed independence. My reverie was dispelled by Alice. She took my hand kindly.

"'You look grave, Philip. I have put these serious thoughts into your head, and you feel sorry for the past. My anger is all gone. I forgive you from my very heart. So give me a kiss, and let us be friends; but no more lectures if you please for the future. I will not stand a scolding—not even from you. You need not fear that I shall disgrace you: I am too proud to place myself in the power of any one. I like, yes, I love Theophilus Moncton, but he will never make a fool of me, or any one else. But—hush—here is Miss Moncton.'