It was Eugene's birthday. He had coaxed Marryott to give him a treat of cakes and fruit in the garden summer-house. His brothers were invited, and even his father honoured the party with his presence.

Marryott presided over the entertainment. Eustace had been out of the way, and did not arrive until the others were assembled. He made his appearance at the banquet all bright, animated expectation, having but just heard of the unwonted indulgence provided him, and prepared to partake in it with full boyish enjoyment.

But at the threshold he paused. By one quick glance, his eye had taken in each individual of the collected group. A sudden thought seemed to press upon the wild beatings of his heart. A cloud overshadowed the quick brightness of his brow.

"Come along, Eustace!" cried the boy Eugene, "if you mean to come at all."

But no, he did not stir. There he stood, rooted to the spot, his changing countenance betokening the struggle of strong feeling passing through his breast, another glance—from which shot forth a gleam of noble fire—around, and then his dark, full eye fixed itself with calmer sternness upon his young brother's face.

"No, thank you, Eugene," he said firmly, "I cannot come. My mother she is all alone in the house. I must go to her," and instantly he turned, and

On one occasion, Mrs. Trevor heard the voice of her husband raised in long and angry accents. She listened with trembling misgiving as to the object of his reprehension, but when to words sounds succeeded, plainly betokening bodily chastisement, she could no longer refrain, but hastened to the spot from whence they proceeded.

It was Mr. Trevor's study, and on opening the door and entering, she found indeed her beloved boy Eustace under the hands of his father undergoing severe and painful punishment; Eugene standing by like a young Saul, witnessing the martyrdom of a Saint Stephen, holding his brother's coat over his arm, a little pale perhaps, but watching with a tolerably cold and steady eye the proceedings of the parental persecution.

The look and tone of sore distress with which the gentle intercessor supplicated for mercy, shamed even the unloving husband into compliance.

He released his victim, who turned aside with tearless eyes, but every vein of his noble brow swollen with suppressed anguish.

But every thought of his own suffering or disgrace seemed soon to be forgotten in the pain and grief he saw upon his mother's countenance, as with trembling voice she made inquiry into the offence which had called down such unwonted severity upon the culprit.

"He is a squandering spendthrift," was the father's reply; "and you, Madam, with your fine ideas and lessons, have helped to make him so; but I will teach him better. He was at the same trick once before, and I warned him of the consequences. A long time will it be before he gets another shilling from me, to waste upon a set of rascally vagabonds lurking about the premises, seeking what they may devour."

"Mother!" said the boy firmly, "they were a party of poor mechanics, turned out of their homes and deprived of all means of getting their bread. One man carried his poor little girl, dying from starvation, in his arms; what better could I do?"

Another sharp blow from the father cut short the explanation, and Eustace was ordered to leave the room, not to approach his mother, or touch a morsel of food, save bread and water, for the remainder of the day.

The boy obeyed in silence, but with a bursting heart, and Mrs. Trevor remained to listen, in resigned sorrow, to the anathemas poured forth against her darling—of his evil and corrupt dispositions, and the fearful predictions, that she would live one day to see him turn out the disgrace and ruin of the family.

"Only see, Madam, in this one instance the difference between these two boys. Eugene, bring your money-box."

The boy, with complacent alacrity, produced a small casket, and opening it with a key attached to a ribbon round his neck, exhibited indeed a shining store of silver pieces, slightly interspersed with gold.

"Eugene is indeed a rich boy," the mother observed very gravely.

"Yes, and a good, and wise, and prudent boy, and he shall be richer still some of these days; I will see to that. Yes, he can—he may afford to be generous; he knows how to bestow his gifts in the right direction. Eugene, show your mother what I have allowed you to buy out of your savings for your attached and valued friend."

The boy, in the same manner as before, uncovered a parcel lying on the table, and thereby displayed a roll of rich and handsome silk.

"Is it not beautiful, mamma?" he exclaimed innocently; "it is for Marryott; this is her birthday you know."

Mrs. Trevor's lip quivered. She looked pale, and turned away her head.

When were her birthdays so remembered?

"May I take it to her, papa?"

"Yes, yes, take it away, boy!" said Mr. Trevor, rather impatiently; and Eugene, proudly shouldering his offering, marched off triumphantly with it to Marryott's apartments.

A silent pause ensued. It was broken by Mrs. Trevor, quietly suggesting the advisability of a more regular and impartial allowance being bestowed upon the two younger boys, remarking that she feared the present arrangement was likely to be prejudicial to the characters of both, perhaps to their future conduct through life.

The mother spoke more firmly, more courageously than usual. Perhaps the incident which had just been enacted, had a little hardened and strengthened her spirit for the encounter. But her words were of little avail.

"Not at all, not at all," was the angry interruption. "Allow me, Madam, to act as I please on that point. I give what I please, and withhold what I please, as I see fit and proper; and I have found out pretty well before to-day, that whilst I could trust one boy with a whole bank of money, the other is not, nor ever will be, worthy to possess one shilling of his own. I shall, therefore, act accordingly, and beg you will not attempt to interfere upon the subject; it is my department, not yours."

Mrs. Trevor could only sigh, and was about to retire. But no. She must first undergo another ordeal.

The door opened, and Eugene re-appeared, attended by Marryott.

"She is so pleased, papa, and so obliged," cried the boy, "and is come to thank you."

Mrs. Trevor arose with gentle dignity.

Mabel Marryott had not been apprised of her mistress' presence in the library, but the expression of her well-disciplined countenance—that "face formed to conceal"—scarcely evinced this fact as she paused upon the threshold, and with the utmost composure and respect, apologised for her intrusion; but begged to be allowed to express her grateful thanks for the beautiful present which her dear master Eugene had just brought to her. It was much too handsome for her, appealing with the greatest deference to Mrs. Trevor; but she would gladly wear it for her dear boy's sake.

"Do—do so, Marryott, it is Eugene's present—quite his own," Mr. Trevor replied with some embarrassment of manner.

"Indeed, Sir?" with the utmost simplicity; "well, I must say, he is always a dear generous child," and she stooped and kissed the boy, who rather unwillingly submitted to his nurse's fondling. Mrs. Trevor knew that this was the same woman, who had so short a time ago betrayed her generous child Eustace, to the unjust anger of his father, and there was something in this present demonstration of affection towards this other, which went greatly against her feelings.

She rose—never with all her provocations, was her mild ladylike deportment laid aside, and said:

"Eugene, dear, open the door for me; I am going up-stairs."

The boy, though unaccustomed to any such exigeant demands on his respectful attention, from his mother, nor trained to yield them unasked, shook off Marryott's arm, still encircling his waist, and willingly obeyed, running to comply with the request. Mrs. Trevor left the room as Eustace had done not long before, in silence, and with a swelling heart, whilst Mrs. Marryott's glance after her retreating figure, seemed to ask what was the meaning of this undue assumption of importance in her unassuming mistress.

The same partial fate which attended the young Eustace under his father's roof, extended itself to his life at school. In the rather inferior establishment to which he, and his younger brother were sent—one very unworthy and inefficient to develope the genius and talent, inherent in the boy—qualities which nevertheless struggled forth, spite of all disadvantages, into life and power, too little appreciated by others—there the favour of the sycophant master, was lavished exclusively on the rich father's favourite, to the apparent detriment and depreciation of the other. The high and generous spirit of the boy, was reported as ill-disposed and unruly, and treated accordingly with severity, or more properly speaking, tyranny and injustice.

A crushing or hardening effect upon the mind and character, must have inevitably been the result of such a process, had it not been for the superior nature of the being upon whom it worked; to say nothing of that counter charm which ever lay upon his heart, a talisman against the power of every evil influence—his mother's love. But there was one effect produced by the state of things we have endeavoured to show forth, which could not be averted. We mean the seed of future misery, thereby sown between the youthful brothers.

In early childhood there had subsisted between them an affection almost bordering upon enthusiasm, remarkable in children of their age; in the younger how soon, like every other good and truthful inclination of his heart and character, contracted and undermined by the still more pernicious influence to which by his different circumstances he was exposed. It might have been supposed that were the invidious feelings of envy, or jealousy, to be engendered in either mind by the system of partiality to which they were subjected in such a lamentable degree, it would have been in that of the least favoured; but jealousy belonged not to the noble nature of Eustace.

Sad surprise—indignant risings in his breast against the injustice of his father's conduct, were the consequence, but no invidious feeling against the rival object himself. That one indeed, he would ever have loved and cherished, borne with and forgiven, as in those young days, whilst any evidence of brotherly feeling was given in exchange. But no—it was the favoured one, as we often see to be the case—the rich and favoured one, who began to envy his poorer brother, even the scanty portion which fell to his share.

And of what was there in those early days that Eugene could envy Eustace?

What but that boon, which though influenced outwardly to despise—his inherent taste for the good and beautiful, caused him secretly to covet, above every other gift—the fervent love which he saw bestowed by his despised, but angelic mother, on the child, whose affection drew it so freely forth—love how ready to be poured as largely on his own head, but for the barrier of slight, coldness, and constraint she saw so soon interposed between herself and that else equally beloved child.

Oh! the pain, to mark the glances of that dark, clear eye grow cold and dim, when turned upon her—the once open brow

But all this belongs more properly to a later, and, alas! darker period of the lives of those it is our task to trace, and to which we must hasten forward; that period, in which boyhood merges into manhood, and the seed sown for good or ill springs forth, and bears—some thirty, some sixty, and some an hundred-fold.