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

Walter too was, of course, grieved at the loss of his sister and mother, but the blow was far lighter to him than to his brother, partly from his being of a more lively and elastic temperament, and partly because he did not, being so young a boy when the sad events took place, so fully understand as did his elder brother the shame and disgrace which hung over the family through his sister's heartless and selfish conduct. His aunt soon came to supply his mother's place, and completely won the impulsive boy's heart by her untiring and thoughtful affection. And one lesson he was learning from her, which was at first the strangest and hardest of lessons to one brought up as he had been, and that was, to respect the feelings and appreciate, though by very slow degrees, the character of his brother. His own superiority to Amos he had hitherto taken as a matter of course and beyond dispute. Everybody allowed it, except perhaps old Harry; but that, in Walter's eyes, was nothing. Amos was the eldest son, and heir to the family estate, and therefore the old butler took to him naturally, and would have done so if he had been a cow without any brains instead of a human being. So said Walter, and was quite content that a poor, ignorant fellow like Harry, who could have no knowledge or understanding of character, should set his regards on the elder son, and not notice the otherwise universally acknowledged bodily and intellectual superiority of his more worthy self. No wonder, then, that pity more than love was the abiding feeling in Walter's heart towards his less popular and less outwardly attractive brother. And it was a very strange discovery, and as unwelcome as strange, which his aunt was now leading him gradually to make spite of himself, that in real sterling excellence and beauty of character the weight, which he had hitherto considered to lie wholly in his own scale, was in truth to be found in the opposite scale on his brother's side of the balance. Very slowly and reluctantly indeed was he brought to admit this at all, and, even when he was constrained to do so, he by no means surrendered at discretion to his aunt's view of the matter, but fought against it most vigorously, even when his conscience reproved him most loudly. And thus it was that a day or two after his conversation with Miss Huntingdon on the moral courage exhibited by Colonel Gardiner, he was rather glad of an opportunity that presented itself of exhibiting his brother in an unamiable light, and "trotting him out with his shabby old horsecloth on," as he expressed it, for the amusement of himself and friends. It was on a summer evening, and very hot, so that Miss Huntingdon, her two nephews, and two young men, friends of Walter, were enjoying tea and strawberries in a large summer-house which faced a sloping lawn enamelled with flower-beds glowing with masses of richly tinted flowers. Mr Huntingdon was not with them, as this was Bench day, and he was dining after business hours with a brother magistrate. Walter, full of life and spirits, rattled away to his heart's content, laughing boisterously at his own jokes, which he poured forth the more continuously because he saw that Amos was more than usually indisposed to merriment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"True, aunt, if it's really duty; but some people's duty means merely their own fancy, and it's very convenient to call that duty when you don't want to be obliging."

"It may be so, Walter; but, on the other hand, if we have seen cause even to impose upon ourselves something as a duty, we are bound to carry it out, although others may not see it to be a duty and may call it fancy; and certainly we should at least respect those who thus follow what they firmly believe they ought to do, even though we cannot exactly understand or agree with their views of duty. So you must bear with Amos; for I am certain that he would not say 'No' to you about the race if he were not persuaded that duty stands in the way of his taking a part in it."

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

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

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

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

"Not a soldier this time, Aunt Kate."

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

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

"You shall, Walter. His exploits just consisted in this, that he imposed a great duty on himself as the one object of his life, and never let anything turn him from it, though obstacles met him in every direction such as nothing but the highest sense of duty could have nerved him to break through. In the first place, he was of a weakly constitution, and might therefore well have excused himself from any unnecessary labours, and might have indulged in luxuries which might almost have been considered as necessaries to one whose appetite was not strong. He could well have afforded such innocent indulgence, for he was a man of good fortune. He was, however, remarkable for his abstemious habits; and having been led, when high sheriff of his county, to look into the state of Bedford jail, he was so shocked with the miserable condition of the prisoners and their being crowded together in a place filthy, damp, and ill-ventilated, that he set himself to make a tour of inspection of all the county jails in England, and soon completed it, and was examined before the House of Commons on the state of our prisons. And here he had to suffer from that misrepresentation and misunderstanding which are too often the lot of those who have set themselves to some great and noble work. It seemed so extraordinary to some members of Parliament that a gentleman, out of pure benevolence, should devote himself to such a painful work, and run the risk of contagion, that they could hardly understand it; and one gentleman asked 'at whose expense he travelled,'—a question which Howard could scarcely answer without some indignant emotion. You see, they could not appreciate such exalted heroism; and surely it required no little moral courage to persevere. But he did persevere, and his work grew upon him.

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

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

"I cannot give you a better summing up of my hero's character than in the words of the great Edmund Burke. I have them here." Saying which she opened a small manuscript book containing extracts from various authors in her own handwriting, which she kept in her work-basket, and read as follows:—"'He has visited all Europe, not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples; not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a scale of the curiosities of ancient art; not to collect medals, nor to collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons, and to plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and contempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare the distresses of men in all countries. His plan is original, and it is as full of genius as it is of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery—a circumnavigation, of charity.' Such was Burke's true estimate of my hero. And surely never was a nobler heroism—it was so pure, so unselfish; for when they would have erected a monument to him in his lifetime, and had gathered large sums for that purpose during his absence abroad, he at once put a stop to the project on his return home.—Am I wrong, dear Walter, in taking John Howard for one of my special moral heroes?"

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

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



CHAPTER SEVEN.

HARRY IN THE SECRET.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it one of my tenants' children?"

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

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

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

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

"What's best to be done, then?—What do you say, Kate?" asked the squire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing loath, but rather gratified with the part he had to play and the trust placed in him, the old butler set out about noon on the old mare, accompanied by Walter, who was on his way to the Worthingtons'. Harry would have preferred managing matters in his own fashion, which would have been to go on a tour of inquiry from farm to farm; but, having no choice, he surrendered himself to the guidance and directions of Walter. So they rode on together for some miles till they came within sight of the cottage where Amos had been seen by his brother playing with the little children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope and read the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat and thoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:—

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

There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amos was sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Of course it was plain that the writer could put him in the way of recovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood? and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if he did not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child might be lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. The nearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; and should he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood with success, it would be difficult for him to return home the same evening by any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart to abandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to the little town of Redbury.

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

After a restless and anxious night he rose early; and, after commending himself and his cause to God in earnest prayer, set off, after a hasty breakfast, in the direction given him as leading to the place of appointment. It was a glorious summer day; and as he rode briskly along the country road, out of which he soon turned into a long lane skirted on either side by noble trees, he could not help sighing to think how man's sin had brought discord and deformity into a world which might otherwise have been so full of beauty. The wood soon appeared in sight, and a lonely as well as lovely spot it was. Many bridle-roads intersected it; he chose one which seemed to lead into the centre, and in a short time the great oak was visible. There was no mistaking the venerable forest giant, with its rugged fantastic limbs towering high above the neighbouring trees. So he made straight for it at once. Amos was no coward, though naturally of a timid disposition; for he had patiently acquired habits of self-control, learned partly in the school of chastisement, and partly in the school of self-discipline. And yet it was not without a feeling of shrinking and misgiving that he saw a man approaching the oak from a path opposite to that by which he himself had come. Trees, mingled with thick brushwood, covered the ground on all sides, except where the roads and bridle-paths ran, and not a creature had he met before since he turned out of the main road. Little time, however, was allowed him for further reflection; in a minute more he was joined by the other traveller. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy him that he had before him the same man who had attracted his attention the evening before at the Wheatsheaf.

The stranger was, as has been said, tall, and wore a long beard. On the present occasion he was wrapped in an ample cloak, and had on his head a high-crowned hat encircled with a feather. Amos could not make him out;—what was he? As they came close up to one another, the stranger saluted Amos with an air of mingled ease and affectation, and motioned him to a seat when he had dismounted from his pony. So Amos, still holding Prince's bridle in his hand, placed himself on a grassy mound near the base of the old oak, while the other seated himself a few paces from him. Neither spoke for a little while; then the stranger broke the silence. His voice was not, in its natural tones, otherwise than pleasing; but there was an assumption in his manner of speaking and a spice of sarcastic swagger which grated very painfully on the sensibilities of his companion. However, it was pretty evident that the stranger had no particular care to spare the feelings of the person whom he was addressing.

"I may as well explain at once, Mr Huntingdon," he began, "how I came to communicate with you in a way somewhat uncommon. The fact is, that I have reasons for not wishing to make myself known more than I can help to the good people in these parts. Now, had I sent you my note by the hand of any messenger, this would have drawn attention to myself, and might have led to inquiries about me which are not just now convenient. I was quite sure that yourself, or some one belonging to you, would be searching up and down the lanes for the little boy, and that his silk handkerchief, placed where I put it, would attract notice, and the note tied up in it be conveyed to yourself without my appearing personally on the scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; and no one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This is as it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, do you guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, before yesterday evening."

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

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

"I have feared so," replied Amos.

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

"I believe so," said Amos; "at any rate, all that has been known by the family generally has been that she married"—here he hesitated; but the other immediately added,—

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

"If you please."

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

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

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

"And the boy?" asked Amos.

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

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

"The stage," was the reply.

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

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

Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then he looked his companion steadily in the face, and said, "And is there no other course open?"

"Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, without any more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. The fact is, I want money, and—not an uncommon thing in this not over agreeable or accommodating world—don't know where to get it. I have, therefore, just this to say,—if you will pledge me your word to send me a cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, will at once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as a man of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. You may think what you please of me, but such is my proposal."

These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self- possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazing effrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needy adventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and had deserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found out that Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present, had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, as a way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also pretty clear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers of justice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach of the law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hanging up the little boy's handkerchief on the way-post, being sure that persons would be out immediately in all directions searching for the child, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief with the letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as the young man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nurse discovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search for the missing child; and thus the writer's purpose would be answered without his having given any clew by which himself could be discovered and brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos. And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish and unscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be done by appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could act deliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephew in his father's hands, to be brought up to the stage—or, in other words, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thought was not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.

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

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

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

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

"Exactly so," replied the other; "and now, as a little matter of business, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to 'John Smith or Bearer,'—that, certainly, will tell no tales."

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

"To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spot where the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; it is about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the place well. I will be there at five o'clock to-morrow morning, before the general world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or send some trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say that any attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasion would be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further, should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon my removing both my children from your cottage at the earliest opportunity."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, and who tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybody knows, so that they're gone afore you gets 'em. But if you've got a secret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it from me."

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

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

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

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

"Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I need hardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You will remember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretly a man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father was cut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home against Miss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him nor excusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knew till to-day who or what my poor sister's husband was. I never dared mention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had to leave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on my heart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again. I know it can be done, and I believe, with God's help, it will be done. I have found out to-day that my poor sister's husband is an actor, evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him from one place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before the children were old enough to know him as their father; and about a year ago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserable lodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helped her. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of her husband's stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to free herself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from want till her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have her two children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and who would soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother as she then was, and with such people about her as friends or acquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them under the charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and since then I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord would guide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at a time. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the children enticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning some miles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took him away that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met this morning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to send him a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then he said he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That I would not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me back the little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddle with either of the children again. And now I want you to take the money for me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above the Manor-house at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him a cheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help in the matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?—they are black enough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker."

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHT.

BEARING THE CROSS.

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

Amos took it all very quietly, fully understanding that Walter was vexed with him for pursuing a path alone, along which his brother neither could nor would follow him at present. He was content that it should be so, and bore the cross patiently, being willing to bide his time, thankful to notice in Walter a kindlier feeling towards himself on the whole, and convinced that, in the end, his own motives and work would be duly appreciated by that brother whom he sincerely loved.

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

Nothing special had occurred to spoil the harmony of feeling between Amos and Walter for some weeks after the unexpected absence of the former from home; so that the hearts of the brothers were really being drawn closer together, notwithstanding natural dissimilarity of disposition, and the absence in Walter of that high principle and self- discipline which were moulding his elder brother's character into daily nearer conformity to Him who is the one only perfect pattern of humanity.

It was while Walter was thus increasingly becoming sensible of the superior beauty of his brother's sterling worth and consistency, and was at the same time secretly resenting the pressure of that nobler life's influence upon him, being unprepared to follow it out himself and submit to its gentle restraints and self-denial, that a party of friends was assembled at dinner one summer evening at the Manor-house. Mr Huntingdon did not give dinner-parties now as frequently as in happier days, and his friends and neighbours understood and appreciated the cause; but now and then he felt it to be his duty to entertain his friends in the old way; so, on the present occasion, some thirty guests sat down to table.

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

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

Walter was seated just opposite his brother, full of life and fun, as he threw off his gay remarks now on this side and now on that. Suddenly he looked across at Amos, and something in the situation of his brother between the old lady and her daughter struck him as so irresistibly funny, that it was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained himself from a violent outburst of laughter. And, certainly, to one easily moved to merriment there was something singularly quaint and almost comic in the contrast between the subdued but courteous manner of Amos, who was patiently endeavouring to make himself agreeable to his two immediate neighbours, and the excited frivolity of Miss Morse's running fire of worldly commonplaces, occasionally interrupted by her mother's more staid utterances of a similar character.

Walter thoroughly comprehended the situation, and the reason why such pains were being taken to draw out his brother; and his satisfaction and amusement were unbounded at the manifest failure of the effort. The old lady caught Walter's eye, and divining somewhat of the cause of its merry twinkle, coloured, and was silent. Her daughter also looked uneasily across the table, and then exclaimed,—

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

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

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

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

"Oh, everything that you can imagine!"

"Well, I can imagine so many things," said Walter laughing, "that I am quite sure her ladyship's garden could never have held them all. Pray, tell me what you yourself thought the attraction par excellence."

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

"What! with those numberless attractions?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, not a conjurer exactly."

"Well, then, something of the sort?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All eyes were on him. What should he say? He turned very red; and then, having helped himself to a glass of wine, he said, carelessly, and with a short, merry laugh, "Harm! oh, of course not! The man meant no harm; he didn't attack individuals. All the better if he made drunkenness and hypocrisy ridiculous.—Don't you think so, Amos?"

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

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

Thus appealed to, Amos no longer hesitated, but said calmly, and in a low distinct voice, heard by every one at the table, "I had rather not have given my opinion; but, when I am thus openly appealed to, I must not shrink from expressing it. I think it wrong, utterly wrong, to ridicule sin in any shape or form. To put sin in a funny light is not the way to make us hate it as we ought to do. Our Saviour never made light or a jest of sin; and I believe that the man who mimicked a drunkard and a hypocritical preacher had no love for either sobriety or holiness."

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, when all the guests had taken leave, and Miss Huntingdon had retired to her room, happy in the prospect of coming rest, she heard a sort of half scuffle at her door, followed by a knock. Then in came Walter, dragging in some one after him who was evidently reluctant to be thus introduced. "Can you, oh, can you, dear aunt, spare me—ay, spare us,—that means me and Amos, or, rather, it ought to be Amos and me,— just a few minutes? Amos doesn't want to come, just like his unselfish self, but I do. No, I don't want to tire you after all your fatigues, but I can't go to sleep till I have had a word from you. If you don't let me stop, if you don't say that word, I shall lie awake all night, thinking of those hands—not cross, for their owner is never cross, but crossed—those crossed hands. Or if I do go to sleep, I shall do nothing but dream of them. So pray let me stop; and Amos must stop too."

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

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

"Ah! auntie, I want those hands to talk to me, and I want Amos to hear them talk. I want you to tell us both some of your moral courage anecdotes; they will strengthen him and be a lesson to me; for I don't want you to tell me this time that I was wrong. There sits the brave man, here kneels the coward."

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

"You remember Frederick the Great, as he was called. Alas! he was great in infidelity as well as in war; and he delighted to gather round him those who shared in the same unbelieving views. God and his truth were subjects of ridicule with them; and a bold man indeed would he be who would venture to say in their presence a word in favour of the gospel or of respect for its divine Author. But there was such a one amongst those who had the privilege of sitting at the king's table; an old grey- headed man of rank, who had fought his country's battles nobly, and whose wise counsels in state affairs were highly prized by his sovereign. He was dining one day at the palace, and saw all round him none but those who made a mock of sin and religion. The conversation flowed freely, and the smart jests of Frederick called forth similar flashes of wit from his different guests. The subject of Christianity soon came up, and was immediately handled in the most profane and bitter style by the king and those around him. No wit is so cheap as profane wit; for the devil seems to give a special facility of sarcasm to those who attack God's truth; and, besides that, there seems nothing which ungodly men relish so much, for giving point to their blasphemies, as Scripture facts or words misquoted, misapplied, or parodied. So the gospel and its Founder were bandied from tongue to tongue as a theme for unholy mirth. But presently there was a pause and a dead silence; for the grey-headed old soldier, who had sat perfectly silent and deeply pained, as he listened to the unhallowed talk of his companions, rose to his feet, his face flushed, and his hoary head bowed down. What was coming now?

"'May it please your majesty,' the old man began, while the tears ran down his cheeks, and his voice was troubled, 'I have always, as I am sure you will acknowledge, behaved with due respect to your majesty whenever in your majesty's presence; nor can any one here say that he has ever heard me speak evil of your majesty behind your back. Your majesty knows, also, that I have endeavoured to serve you faithfully on the field and in the council-chamber. You must therefore bear with me while I say that I cannot sit patiently by and hear your majesty join with your friends in speaking evil of the dearest friend I have, one dearer to me than my life, and whom I must hold in greater honour than even your majesty. I mean my Saviour and heavenly King, the Lord Jesus Christ. Pardon me, therefore, your majesty, if I ask leave to withdraw at once.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," replied his brother; "he reminds me of the greatest, perhaps, of all moral heroes—I mean, of course, among beings like ourselves. I am thinking of the apostle Paul, who changed at once from the persecutor to the preacher; gave up every earthly honour and advantage; braved the bitter scorn of his old friends; and, without hesitation, began immediately publicly to proclaim the gospel which he had before been mad to destroy."

Walter held out his hand to his brother, and the clasp was a close and mutual one; and then, hand in hand, they left their aunt, who laid her head on her pillow that night with deep thankfulness in her heart, for she saw that, spite of all drawbacks, there was a good work making progress in Walter, and that the high and holy character of the true and tried disciple of the Saviour was gaining strength and beauty in the once despised and misunderstood Amos.



CHAPTER NINE.

IS IT GENUINE?

But though Walter was learning to understand and appreciate his brother's character, and to acknowledge his superiority to himself in moral courage, he was not altogether satisfied with continuing to lie under the sense of that superiority on his brother's part. He had himself been so constantly made the object of his father's admiration and outspoken praises, and had always been so popular with all friends of the family and guests at the Manor-house, that anything like a feeling of inferiority to his brother was one which he found it very hard to allow a lodging in his heart and thoughts. So, while the generous impulse of the moment had led him to applaud and rejoice in his brother's noble moral courage, when they were discussing the matter in his aunt's room, he was by no means prepared, when that impulse had died away, to allow Amos to carry off and retain the palm which he acknowledged that he had won. Jealousy of his brother's reputation for moral courage with Miss Huntingdon was a meanness which he would have thought himself incapable of, and which he would have repudiated indignantly had he been charged with it. Nevertheless, it was there in his heart; it made him restless and dissatisfied, and kept him longing for an opportunity to display a moral courage which should shine with a light that might, even in his aunt's eyes, eclipse, or at any rate equal, that which glowed so brightly in Amos. He was therefore on the watch for such an opportunity; and before long that opportunity, as he thought, presented itself.

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

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

"Why, just listen to this advertisement:—'I hereby challenge the working-men of this neighbourhood to a trial of skill in running, leaping, and shooting; and I promise to give a sovereign to any man who shall beat me in a mile race, a high jump, and firing at a mark. The trial to come off on Marley Heath, on Tuesday, June 8th, at four o'clock p.m.

"'Signed, Walter Huntingdon, Flixworth Manor.'—Do you know anything about this, Walter? Did you really put this advertisement into the paper? or is it a disgraceful hoax?"

Poor Walter looked perfectly astounded, as did also his aunt and brother. Then he said, with some hesitation, "It is no advertisement of mine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It can't be—it mustn't be," exclaimed his father angrily; "it's perfectly preposterous. We shall be the talk and the jest of the whole county. It will do harm, too, to the working-classes. Why, you'll have all the idle vagabonds there. Some light-fingered and light-heeled poacher will win your sovereign—you'll be the laughing-stock of all the country round, and so shall I too. And such a thing, instead of encouraging patient industry and sobriety, will be just the means of giving heart to the idlers and the profligates. It must not be, Walter, my boy."

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Walter's reply to his friends was not particularly cordial in its tone, and made Gregson see that he must put in a word of conciliation. "Come, old fellow," he said, "you must forgive me if I took you too literally at your word. I really thought you meant it; it will do no harm to anybody, and will only show that you've got the old Huntingdon pluck and spirit in you."

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

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

Everything was then duly arranged for the contest. A mile's course had been previously marked out, and a shooting-butt set up, and also two poles with a leaping-rod across them. As the hour approached, several young men respectably dressed came up, and among them a powerful and active-looking fellow whose appearance was hailed by a general shout of mirth. His clothing was none of the best; his face was scarred in several places; and there was a free-and-easy manner about him, very different from that of the other competitors. He answered the loud laughter by which his appearance had been greeted with a broad grin and a profound bow of mock salutation. Each candidate for the trial had brought his gun with him, and stood prepared for the contest. Gregson and Saunders managed all the arrangements after a brief consultation with Walter.

Four o'clock had now come, and Gregson, having ascertained the fact by looking at his watch, brought the competitors forward, and informed them that the shooting would be the first thing, and that six shots would be allowed to each, the winner being of course he who should place the greatest number of marks nearest the bull's-eye. At the same time Gregson made it to be distinctly understood that the sovereign was only to be given to the man, if such should be found, who should beat Walter Huntingdon in all three things,—namely, in shooting, leaping, and running.

By his own request Walter came first. Whatever may have been his feelings of annoyance or reluctance up to this time, they were now completely swallowed up in the excitement of the moment and the desire to maintain the high reputation he had previously gained. So he threw his whole soul into the contest, and with steady eye and unwavering hand pointed his rifle towards the target. Bang! a cloud of smoke. Well shot! the bullet had struck the target, but not very near the centre. A second and third were equally but not more successful. The fourth struck the bull's-eye, the fifth the ring next it, and the sixth the bull's-eye again. Bravo! shouted the excited crowd; would any one beat that? Forward now came a sober-looking young man, and did his best, but this was far short of what Walter had achieved. Two others followed with no better success. Then came one who handled his gun very carefully, and took his aims with great deliberation. Three shots in the bull's-eye! here was a winner—would any one come up to him? Four more came forward, and two of these again scored three shots in the bull's-eye. And now the rough-looking man, who had excited the general mirth of the crowd on his arrival, took his stand opposite the target. He gazed at it a full minute before raising his piece. There was a derisive titter throughout the spectators as at last he did so in an awkward style, and with a queer twist of his mouth. The next moment he was rigid as a statue cut out of stone. Flash! bang! the bull's-eye; again the bull's-eye; two more very near it; twice again the bull's-eye. So he has made the best score after all. "I thought so," he cried, with a swaggering toss of his head and a jaunty whistle, and then with a flourish of his rifle high in air he strode back into the midst of the onlookers. Thus there were four of the competitors who had outdone Walter in the firing at the mark.