But the running and jumping yet remained to be contested. The jumping was arranged to come next, and the four winners in the shooting prepared to do their best against their young challenger: Walter was now thoroughly roused, and, taking off his coat, and exchanging his boots for a pair of light shoes, stepped forward to exert himself to his utmost. Higher and higher did he bound over the cross-rod as it was raised for him by his friends peg by peg. Jumping was a feat in which he specially prided himself, and loud was the applause of Gregson, Saunders, and their friends as he sprang over the rod time after time. At last he failed to clear it, and his utmost was done. And now the previous winners came on in turn. The first who made the attempt soon gave in; he was clearly inferior to Walter in the high jump. The next surpassed him by one peg. The third equalled him. And now came forward the strange-looking man on whom all eyes were eagerly bent. He had divested himself of his coat and dirty neck-tie, and having kicked off his shoes, looked round him with a snort and a wild grimace, and then ran forward with a light, skipping step, and cleared the first stick without the slightest effort. Each succeeding height was leapt over with the same ease, till he had equalled the most successful jumper. "And now for a topper," he cried, as the rod was raised by still another peg. Throwing all his energies into the effort, with a rush and a mighty bound he cleared the stick by nearly a foot, and danced gaily back to the starting-point amidst the vociferous applause of all present. Therefore Walter had now the two to contend with in the foot- race who had surpassed him in the high jump. The interest of the crowd was now at boiling-point, and all sorts of conjectures, opinions, and affirmations were circulated as to the issue of the trial, while the three who were to run were resting a while. At length, cheered on by the sympathising shouts of the impatient spectators, they placed themselves abreast, stripped of all superfluous garments, and at a signal from Gregson the race began. Walter commenced warily, husbanding his strength, and not quickening his speed till he had reached the middle of the course; the one of the remaining two did much the same. As for the other, the wild-looking winner of the highest place in the two previous contests, he slouched along amidst peals of laughter all through the line. Nevertheless, it was soon evident that, although dropping behind a little in the first quarter of a mile, he was gradually drawing up nearer and nearer to the front. When Walter had accomplished three-fourths of his task, and was now putting on extra speed, the wild stranger, with a shout of "Victory for ever!" flung himself forward at a tremendous speed, and kept easily ahead to the end. The two remaining racers now pressed on abreast till within a yard of the place from whence they started, when, by a last vehement effort, Walter's companion came in a foot or two in advance. All flung themselves on the grass, and when the hubbub of cheers and shouts had subsided, Walter rose to his feet, and holding out a hand to each of the victors, said with a laugh, "Fairly beaten."

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank'ee, sir," said Jim; "and so has Will Gittins here, if I'm not mistaken."

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for Walter himself, he was only too glad to keep silent on the matter, and let it die out; and so were the family generally. There was one, however, from whom Walter looked for sympathy, and even for a measure of approbation—this was his aunt. In the evening, after the article in the county paper on his challenge and its results had been read with severe comments by his father at the breakfast-table, he found Miss Huntingdon sitting alone in the summer-house. Having cut two or three small slips off a laurel, he brought them to her, and, as he sat down by her side, said, half mournfully, half playfully, "Auntie, I want you to make me a laurel crown or chaplet of these."

"Indeed, Walter; what for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, Walter?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I see that; but then, Walter—"

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

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

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

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

"Oh, no, no! speak out, auntie—let me hear the truth; you are never really unkind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Frederick the Great of Prussia, Walter."

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

"The same; but remember that, while he ridiculed religion, he was constrained to honour that officer for his consistency. But his moral courage was exhibited on a very different occasion. Now, you must remember what sort of a man Frederick was,—he just resembled a spoiled child, who could not brook the slightest thwarting of his will or pleasure. In some things he was a miser, and in others just the reverse. He wore his uniform till it was patched and threadbare, while he gave two dollars each for cherries in the winter. He would pay enormous sums to secure a singer, and then refuse to allow the opera- house to be lighted with wax-candles, so that the pleasure of the evening was spoiled by the smell of tallow. He was, unhappily, well- known in the army for two peculiarities,—first, a temper of such iron unforgiveness that, if he had taken offence at any one, that man's career was closed, he was never employed again; and, second, a memory of such tenacity that not a hope existed of entrapping him into forgetfulness.

"Now, among his officers there was a colonel, a very brave man, and a capital soldier, who, on one occasion, had made some slight military slip or blunder. This drew on him the king's displeasure, and was never forgotten. So his pension or half-pay allowance was made the very lowest his rank would permit; for these allowances were regulated by the king himself.

"The poor colonel had a wife and a large family of children; he did not understand how to make the best of his small income, nor to improve it by other employment, so that he was at last reduced to what was little short of beggary and starvation. Day after day he placed himself in the royal ante-chamber and begged an audience; but the king would not hear him, and one day got into a towering passion when the officer-in-waiting ventured to utter the poor man's name in the king's presence. At last the colonel grew desperate. He could not make up his mind to beg; his wife was ill, his children starving,—what was he to do? He hit upon the curious idea of getting relief for his family by putting up, unobserved, in the night time, at the corners of the streets in Berlin, placards breathing the most venomous abuse of the king, in the hope that a reward would be offered to the person who should disclose who was the writer of the placard, that he might then himself claim the reward by informing against himself, and so might relieve the immediate pressing necessities of his wife and children, whatever might be the personal suffering and consequences to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TEN.

PLUCK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hardly, I think, my dear boy."

"Well, where's the difference?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And did he ask them civilly?"

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

"And were the bargemen unreasonably hindering him?"

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

"And what happened then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"A very great deal, dear boy. There may have been plenty of pluck shown by your friend Saunders on that occasion, but certainly no moral courage. Indeed I should call his conduct decidedly immoral and cowardly."

"Cowardly, aunt!"

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

"O aunt! you are severe indeed."

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

"What! to a bargee!"

"Yes, to a bargee, Walter. The world might have called him mean or cowardly for such a confession, but he would have shown true moral courage and nobility for all that. To do what will give pain to others rather than incur the reproach of cowardice is really acting under the tyranny of a mean and slavish fear of man, though it may be a plucky thing in the eyes of the World."

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

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

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

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

"And yet, what nobility or moral courage was there in the man who gave or accepted the challenge? Just think of what the consequences might be, and what the ground of the quarrel often was. A hasty word, or even a mere thoughtless breach of etiquette, would bring a challenge; and the person called out must not decline to meet his challenger, and give him 'satisfaction,' as it was called, in the shape of a pistol bullet, under pain of being cut by all his friends and acquaintances as a coward. So a man who was a husband and father would steal away from his home early in the morning, and go out to some lonely spot and meet the man whom he had offended, and be murdered in cold blood, and carried back a bleeding corpse to his miserable widow and fatherless children, just because he could not bear to be called a coward by the world. And to call this 'satisfaction!' The devil never palmed upon his poor deluded slaves a more transparent lie.

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

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

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

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

"Yes, dear boy, I think I can. I call to mind the case of an excellent Christian man; I rather think he was an officer in the army, and that made his position more trying, because in the days when duelling was the fashion, for an officer to refuse a challenge would have raised up the whole of the service against him. However, whether he was a military man or not, he was at any rate a true soldier of the Cross. By something he had done, or left undone, he had grievously offended a companion, and this friend or acquaintance of his called on him one morning, and, being a hot-tempered man, charged him with the supposed offence or affront, and working himself up into a violent passion, declared that they must fight it out, and that he should send him a formal challenge. The other listened very quietly to this outburst of wrath, and then said calmly and deliberately, 'Fight you, must it be? certainly, I must not decline your challenge. Yes, we will fight, and it shall be now; here, on this very spot, and with swords. I have my weapon close at hand.' Saying which, the good man pulled a small Bible out of his pocket, and holding it up before his companion, whose face had turned deadly pale, said, 'Here is my sword, the sword of the Spirit, the only weapon I intend to fight you with.' Telling a friend about it afterwards, the Christian man remarked, 'Never did poor creature look upon a Bible with more satisfaction and relief than my adversary did on mine.' But at the time when the angry man was speechless with astonishment, the other proceeded to say to him kindly, 'Friend, I have a dear wife and children. Now, would it have been right in me to meet you with pistols or other deadly weapons, and to have entailed lasting misery on those so dear to me, and so dependent on me, by either being myself your murderer or allowing you the opportunity of being mine?' That was true moral heroism, dear Walter, and it had its reward there and then, for the challenger at once grasped the hand of his companion and said, 'It would not have been right on your part; you have done just what it was your duty to do in declining my challenge, and I honour you for it. Let us part friends.'"

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

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

"Some years ago, when a regiment was quartered for a time in one of our county towns, one of the officers of the regiment was challenged by a brother officer, and refused to accept the challenge. This refusal soon flew abroad over all the town and neighbourhood, and the consequence was that every one turned his back on the man who refused to fight. He was avoided by all of his own rank of both sexes as a craven and a coward. Of course, he felt this very keenly. To be shut out from houses where he used to be welcomed; to be looked at with scorn by his brother officers; to have not a word addressed to him by any one of them when they met him on parade or at mess; to be the object of ill-concealed contempt even to the common soldiers;—these things were burdens almost intolerable to a man who had any respect for his own character as a soldier. However, for a time he bore it patiently. At last he hit upon an expedient to prove to the world that he was no coward, which was undoubtedly original and convincing, though, certainly, by no means justifiable.

"A large evening party was being given to the officers of the regiment by some distinguished person in the town; a ball probably, for many ladies were present. While all were in the very midst and height of their amusement, suddenly the disgraced officer made his appearance among them in his dress uniform. How could this be? how came he there? Assuredly no one had invited him. As he advanced into the middle of the brilliantly lighted room an empty space was left for him, officers and ladies shrinking from him, as though his near approach brought defilement with it. Looking quietly round, he deliberately produced and held up a hand-grenade, as it was called—that is to say, a small bombshell—and, before any one of the astonished spectators could stop him, lighted a match at one of the wax-candles, and applied it to the fusee of the shell. A shower of sparks came rushing from the hand- grenade, which would explode in a minute or two or even less. The consternation of the company was frightful, and a furious and general rush was made to the doors. As the guests dashed out of the room, some just caught sight of the officer who had brought in and lighted the shell standing calmly over it with his arms folded. A few moments more, all the company had vanished terror-stricken, and then a frightful explosion was heard. One or two of the officers hurried back with horror on their faces. The man who had been branded as a coward lay outstretched on the ground. He had thrown himself flat on the floor the instant the room was cleared; the fragments of the shell had flown over him, and he was almost entirely uninjured.

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



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

AN EXPLOSION.

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

One thing, however, in Amos's conduct sadly puzzled and annoyed him. Knowing that his brother was well provided with money of his own, he used not unfrequently to borrow from him when his own allowance ran short, which it very often did. This borrowing from Amos used to be but rarely followed by any repayment; for he had been so fully indulged by his father when younger, that he had no idea, now that he was getting more from under his father's hand, of denying himself, or going without anything he might happen to fancy. At first he used to tell the trades- people in the neighbouring town, when he made any purchases, to put them down to his father; but to this after a while Mr Huntingdon decidedly objected—finding, as he did, that expense was no consideration to Walter in the choice of an article, provided his father had to bear the cost. So Walter was made to understand that he must make the liberal allowance which his father gave him do, and that there must be no more running up of bills in Mr Huntingdon's name. But such an arrangement was very galling to Walter, who had lived all his early boyhood under the impression that, as being his father's favourite son, he had only to express a wish, or to ask for or to order a thing, and he would have it as a matter of course. However, the squire stood firm in the matter. Walter, he said, was old enough now to understand something of the value of money, and he must learn to cut his coat according to his cloth. This coat, however, with Walter was usually of such exaggerated dimensions that his ordinary allowance of material would go only a small way towards completing it. Consequently he used to have recourse to Amos, who invariably helped him through with a loan—for Walter would never receive help from his brother except as a loan—Amos at the same time hinting now and then at the hope of a partial repayment. To this Walter would reply that his brother should have it all back, if he wished it, "one of these fine days;" but when such seasons of exceptionally fine monetary weather were likely to occur, Amos found it difficult to conjecture. A change, however, had now come over the elder brother, much to the annoyance and disgust of Walter. A decided refusal of a loan of money was accompanied by Amos with a remonstrance with his brother on his extravagance.

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

To all this Amos made no reply at the time, but afterwards sent his brother a portion of the sum he wished to borrow, with a kind note, in which he said that Walter was welcome to this and to all other sums previously lent, as a free gift, but that for the future he could not lend him money beyond a few shillings occasionally, as he had a use for his own funds which made him unable to do for his brother what he had done for him in times past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has already been said that the old man Harry was a privileged servant of long standing, almost a portion of the estate, so that he was allowed little liberties which would not ordinarily have been permitted to one in his place. He had listened with burning cheeks and flashing eyes to Walter's sneering remarks about his brother's wealth, and now lingered near the group, as he was removing a little table on which he had placed the fruit for Mr Johnson. There was a restlessness about his manner which Miss Huntingdon noticed and wondered at; but her attention was then drawn to Walter, who, lounging against a bench, said in a rather drawling voice, "I really wonder what some people do with their money. For my part, I don't see what's the use of it except to be jolly with it yourself, and to make other people jolly with it.—Amos," he added abruptly, "what's up with you that you've become so very poor all of a sudden?"

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

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

Still Amos did not reply, but seemed hesitating what to say. But here Walter broke in again. "I call it downright mean!" he exclaimed bitterly; "but he's getting meaner and meaner, that he is. What he does with his money nobody knows. I suppose he spends it in religious pocket-handkerchiefs and pious bed-quilts for the little niggers in Africa, or something of the sort. At any rate, he has none to spare for those nearer home." He was about to say more, but happening to raise his eyes he was astonished to see the old butler, who had been slowly drawing nearer and nearer, raising his right arm, and looking at him almost fiercely, as though he were going to strike him.—"What's up now, Harry?" he cried; "is the black cat dead?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for old Harry, his face calmed down into its usual peacefulness. He no longer waited for any reply from his young master, but turned towards the house with a smile beaming all over his countenance, and saying half out loud, "All's well as ends well. There'll be good come out of this here trouble as sure as my name's Harry."

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, tell it me then, auntie; if it shames me a hit it will do me no harm."

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

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

"Yes, the same. Charles Lamb, who tells the story, which is a true one, was himself one of these Bluecoat boys. Among his schoolfellows was this boy, my present moral hero. He was dull and taciturn, and no favourite with the other lads; but no one could bring any charge of improper conduct against him. There was one thing, however, about him which none of the other boys could understand. He always lingered behind all the rest after dinner was over, and came out of the dining- hall hiding something under his dress, and looking about him suspiciously. What did it mean? Had he an unnaturally large appetite, so that he was led by it to steal food and eat it by himself after the meal was over? At any rate, if it was so, his extra provision did not improve his personal appearance, for he was still thin and hungry- looking.

"Some questioned him roughly on the subject, but they could get nothing out of him. He stopped for a while the practice which had drawn attention to him, but resumed it again when he thought that curiosity had died out, and that he could follow his old ways unobserved. But there were boys on the watch, and at last it was fairly ascertained that the poor lad used to gather, as far as he had opportunity, scraps of meat, pieces of fat, and fragments of bread and potatoes, which had been left on the boys' plates. These he collected and carried off. But then, what did he do with them? It was not likely that he ate them. No. Then he must sell them when he went home, for his parents lived in London, and he was a day boy. No doubt he disposed of them to people who were ready to give a few pence for refuse food, and thus the little miser was making money in this mean and underhand way. When this conclusion had been arrived at, the whole school was in a state of boiling indignation against the culprit.

"They might have taken the law into their own hands, and have punished him in their own rough and ready way. But no; his conduct was too shameful for that. It was looked upon as a serious disgrace to the whole school. So the case was duly reported to the masters, and by them to the governors. Witnesses were examined, and the offence proved. And now, what was the defence of the poor lad? He had borne shame, scorn, reproach, reviling; he had borne them all patiently, without murmur, without resentment. What, then, was the reason for his strange conduct? what motive or inducement could make him thus brave the scorn and contempt, the daily jeers, and the cut direct from his schoolfellows? All was soon made plain. This boy's parents were old and very poor—so poor, helpless, and friendless that they were often brought to the verge of starvation. In those days, remember, there was not the same attention paid to the poor of all classes, nor loving provision made for their wants, as there is now. So the noble son—for truly noble he was—submitted cheerfully to every trouble and shame that could fall upon himself, in order to get food from time to time for his almost famishing parents. They were too respectable to beg, and would have never allowed their boy to beg for them; and yet so destitute were they that they were even glad of those miserable scraps, the after-dinner leavings on the boys' plates. And these their son gathered for them, indifferent to the consequences which might happen to himself, while at the same time he added a portion of his own daily food to supply the wants of the old people.

"Ah! this was true moral courage, dear Walter; and it was all the greater and nobler because it was exercised in such humble elements, as it were—I mean under circumstances where there was everything to degrade and nothing to elevate the poor boy in the eyes of his schoolfellows."

"I see, aunt," said Walter, sadly and thoughtfully. "Yes, they called him mean, and shabby, and selfish, and frowned and scowled at him, when all the while he was most nobly denying himself, and bearing all that trouble that he might help those who were dearer to him than his good name with his schoolfellows. Ay, I see it all; and it's just a case in point. That's just what I've been doing to my own dear noble brother, who has been sacrificing himself that he might help poor Julia and her little ones. And it has been worse in my case, because those Bluecoat boys had perhaps no particular reason to think well of the other chap before they found out what he had been driving at, and so it was natural enough that they should suspect him. But it's been exactly the reverse with me. I've had no reason to suspect Amos of anything but goodness. All the baseness and meanness have been on my own part; and yet here I've been judging him, and thinking the worst of him, and behaving myself like a regular African gorilla to him.—Dear Amos, can you really forgive me?"

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

"Oh," replied his aunt, "the governors of course acquitted him of all blame, and not only so, but rewarded him also, and, if I remember rightly, proper provision was made for the poor parents of the noble lad."

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWELVE.

PROGRESS.

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

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

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

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

"Rather, dear Amos," replied his aunt, "must the question be, not so much, 'What can I do now?' as, 'What must I do next?' Now it seems to me that the next thing is just prayerfully and patiently to keep your great purpose in view, and to be on the watch for opportunities, and God will give success in due time.—Ah, here comes Walter." She repeated to him what she had just been saying to his brother, and then continued, "Now here we may bring in moral heroism; for it is a very important feature in moral courage to wait steadily watching for opportunities to carry out a noble purpose, and specially so when the way seems completely, or to a great extent, hedged up."

"Examples, auntie, examples!" exclaimed Walter.

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

"I daresay you remember that there was a time when slaves were as much property and a matter of course in our own foreign possessions as they were a short time since in the Southern States of America. So completely was this the case, that when a slave was brought to England by one of our countrymen, he was considered his master's absolute property. However, this was happily brought to an end more than a hundred years ago. A slave named Somerset, who had been brought by his master to this country, fell ill, and his master, thinking that he would be of no more use to him, turned him adrift. But a charitable gentleman, Mr Granville Sharp, found him in his wretched state, had pity on him, and got him restored to health. Then his old master, thinking that now he would be of service to him, claimed him as his property. This led to the matter being taken up; a suit was instituted; and by a decision of the Court of King's Bench, slavery could no longer exist in England. That became law in 1772. The poet Cowper has some beautiful lines on this subject:—

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

"Still, we could hold, and did hold, slaves to a large extent in some of our colonies. Now the great object of Clarkson and Wilberforce was to get slavery abolished throughout the British dominions all the world over; in other words, that it should not be lawful for a slave to exist as a slave in any of our possessions. But they had a hard and steady fight for years and years in pursuit of their great object. Patience, faith, calm courage, perseverance, these were the noble constituents of their moral heroism. Thomas Clarkson, from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, devoted himself unreservedly to the one great purpose of obtaining freedom and justice for the oppressed negro. His work was to collect information, to spread it on all sides, to agitate the question of the abolition of slavery throughout the United Kingdom and the world. William Wilberforce's place in the work was different. His part was to introduce Clarkson's plans to the notice of Parliament, and to advocate them with his wonderful eloquence, and to persevere in that advocacy with untiring zeal and love. When he called the attention of the House of Commons to the question of the slave-trade in 1788 he was met by the most determined opposition. Men's worldly interests were arrayed in arms against the abolition. The traffic in slaves brought millions of money to the British coffers. So the case appeared for a time to be hopeless. But this made no difference to Wilberforce—his courage never failed; his resolution never wavered; year after year he brought forward the subject, and, though he experienced eleven defeats in his endeavours to carry the measure, at last he triumphed. And the result was the termination of slavery in the British dominions in August 1834, and that, too, at a cost to the country of twenty millions of money as compensation to those who, at the time, were holders of property in slaves. All honour to Clarkson and Wilberforce, for theirs was a noble victory, a grand result of the unwavering, unflinching moral courage of those two moral heroes."

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

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

Not many days after this conversation, when the family were at breakfast, Mr Huntingdon asked Walter when the steeplechase was coming off.

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

"You!" exclaimed his father in astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed, father. I almost think so too; and, at any rate, you won't find me losing any more sovereigns to Jim Jarrocks. But I'm almost pledged to Saunders to ride in this steeplechase. It will be capital fun, and no harm, and perhaps I may never have another chance."

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

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

The three weeks came and went; the steeplechase came off, and Walter was one of the riders. The admired of all eyes, he for a time surmounted all difficulties. At last, in endeavouring to clear an unusually wide ditch, he was thrown, and his horse so badly injured that the poor animal had to be shot. Walter himself, though stunned and bruised, was not seriously hurt, and was able to return home in time for dinner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It makes no matter," replied his father, but now with less of irritation in his voice, "whether it was worth three hundred guineas or one hundred pounds. I want to know who is going to pay for it, for certainly I am not."

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

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

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

"You, Amos!" exclaimed all his three hearers, but in very different tones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, it means this,—I am going to bring forward for our general edification an example of moral courage to-night, and my hero is no less a person than Martin Luther; and there is my Martin Luther." As he said this he placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, and looked at him with a bright and affectionate smile. "Yes, he is my Martin Luther: only, instead of his being brought before a 'Diet of Worms,' a very substantial diet of fish, flesh, and fowl has just been brought before him; and instead of having to appear before the Emperor Charles the Fifth, he is now appearing before Queen Katharine the First of Flixworth Manor."

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

"Very well; now I see you are all attention. Martin Luther—wasn't he a grand fellow? Just look at him as he is travelling up to the Diet of Worms. As soon as the summons came to him, his mind was made up; he did not delay for a moment. People crowded about him and talked of danger, but Luther talked about duty. He set out in a waggon, with an imperial herald before him. His journey was like a triumphal procession. In every town through which he passed, young and old came out of their doors to wonder at him, and bless him, and tell him to be of good courage. At last he has got to Oppenheim, not far from Worms, and his friends do their very best to frighten him and keep him back; but he tells them that if he should have to encounter at Worms as many devils as there were tiles on the houses of that city, he would not be kept from his purpose. Ah! that was a grand answer. And then, when he got to his lodgings, what a sight it must have been! They were crowded inside and out with all classes and all kinds of persons,—soldiers, clergy, knights, peasants, nobles by the score, citizens by the thousand. And then came the grand day of all, the day after his arrival. He was sent for into the council-hall. What a sight that must have been for the poor monk! There was the young emperor himself, Charles the Fifth, in all his pomp and splendour, and two hundred of his princes and nobles. Why, it would have taken the breath out of a dozen such fellows as I am to have to stand up and speak up for what I knew to be right before such a company. But Luther did speak up; and there was no swagger about him either. They asked him to recant, and he begged time to consider of it. They met again next day, and then he refused to recant, with great gentleness. 'Show me that I have done wrong,' he said, 'and I will submit: until I am better instructed I cannot recant; it is not wise, it is not safe for a man to do anything against his conscience. Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise. God help me. Amen.' There, auntie, don't you agree with me in giving the crown of moral courage to Martin Luther? It's an old story, and I've learned it quite by heart, for I was always fond of it, but it is none the less true on that account."

"Yes, Walter, clear boy," replied his aunt, "I must heartily agree with you, and acknowledge that you have made a most excellent choice of a hero in Martin Luther. Not a doubt of it, he was a truly great and good man, a genuine moral hero. For a man who can be satisfied with nothing less than what is real and right; who is content to count all things loss for the attainment of a spiritual aim, and to fight for it against all enemies; who does his duty spite of all outward contradiction; and who reverences his conscience so greatly that he will face any difficulty and submit to any penalty rather than do violence to it, that is a truly great man, exhibiting a superb example of moral courage. And such a man, no doubt, was Martin Luther; and I believe I can see why you have chosen him just now, but you must tell me why yourself."

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



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

PERPLEXING.

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

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

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

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

"I am a little upset, dear boy," she replied, "but it is nothing serious."

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

"Well, Walter," replied his sister, "that is just it. I have a note from him this morning asking me to excuse him to you; that duty has called him away, and that I shall understand in what direction this duty lies. I can only hope that nothing serious is amiss; but this I am quite sure of, that Amos would never have gone off in this abrupt way had there not been some pressing cause."

Mr Huntingdon did not speak for a while, his thoughts were evidently troubling him. He remembered the last occasion of his son's sudden absence, and was now well aware that it had been care for his poor erring child's neglected little ones that had then called Amos away. Perhaps it might be so now. Perhaps that daughter herself, against whom his heart and home had been closed so long, might be ill or even dying. Perhaps she was longing for a father's smile, a father's expressed forgiveness. His heart felt very sore, and his breakfast lay untasted before him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such were the contents of the mysterious letter, which were well calculated to stir to their depths the hearts of both the squire and his sister, who looked at each other as those look who become suddenly conscious of a common misfortune. A spell seemed on their tongues. At last the silence was broken by Walter.

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

"Matter enough, I fear," said his father sadly.—"There, Kate, let him look at the letter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I hardly know," replied her brother; "I don't think any one would dare to do Amos any personal injury, and I don't see that it would be anyone's interest to do so. The last time he was called away he returned to us all right; and perhaps he may feel hurt if we do not let him manage things in his own way, seeing he has so nobly taken upon himself the cause of poor—poor"—he would have said "Julia," but he could not get out the word—"my poor child." Here the squire fairly broke down, covering his face with his hands.

"Shall we ask Harry," said his sister, when she could trust herself to speak, "who brought this note for Amos? that mis-hit give us a little bit of a clew if it should be necessary to go and find him out." Harry was accordingly summoned and questioned. He had already made full inquiries of the other servants, but none of them could throw any light on the subject. No one about the premises knew anything about the carrier of the letter. So it was resolved to wait, in hopes that either Amos himself or, at any rate, tidings of him and of his movements would arrive some time during the day. Hour, however, passed by after hour, and no news of Amos came to gladden the hearts at the mansion; and when darkness settled down, and nothing had been heard of the absent one, a deep gloom pervaded the whole household. But of all hearts under that roof during that long and weary night, none was so heavy as Mr Huntingdon's. Memories of the past crowded in upon him; smitings of conscience deeply troubled him. Had he acted a father's part towards that erring daughter? should he have closed the door of home and heart so fast, and kept it barred against her? was she not still his own flesh and blood? and could he justify to himself the iron sternness which had perhaps now driven her to despair? How could he hope for mercy who had shown neither mercy nor pity to one whose sinful disobedience and folly could not make her less his child, though doubtless a sadly misguided one? When morning came, Mr Huntingdon rose a wiser and a humbler man. He poured out his heart in prayer for forgiveness of his own many sins and shortcomings, and then came to a full determination to deal very differently with Amos for the time to come, and to undo his past treatment of his poor daughter as opportunity might be afforded him.