On the following morning, Mrs. Charlston found an opportunity of speaking privately to Fred about the unfortunate affair. She told him all that Clara had said, at the same time endeavoring to make as favorable impression in her behalf as the circumstances of the case would allow; and also earnestly beseeching him to come into good terms at once with Clara.

"Never! never!" ejaculated Fred.

"Why should you talk so determinately, Fred, I'm sure that Clara has given sufficient reasons to justify the circumstances of an unpremeditated act, apparently so innocent, as to be undeserving of censure."

"Were it only the first innocent act, as you consider it, I would not have attached any importance to it," said he.

"Have you really been made aware of a previous intercourse between Charles and Clara?"

"Why, yes, I have heard of it a dozen times—I was informed by letter when at Tiverton that Clara was flirting with Charlie, or as the writer expressed it: 'In your absence your old friend, Charlie Holstrom, is playing at "catch the beau" with your affectionate Clara.'"

"Now Fred, you must tell me who was the writer of that letter."

"It was Harry Walton."

"I just thought so. I'm sure, Fred, you are aware that Harry is noted for manufacturing falsehoods. If you believe him you are the only person in London who does so."

"But I have heard it from others, and they cannot all be liars. There is Mrs. Tennyson, for instance, an old respected friend of your own. One day she hinted sufficient to make me feel suspicious. Fernando Jones squirted a few dry jokes in that way. Sylvester Kennelworth termed me a hen-pecked bachelor. Even Julia Marks, Sylvina Oldham, and Sarah Silverstone bothered me almost to death one evening recently about Clara's intention of presenting me shortly with a 'ticket of leave.'"

"Wherefore, dear Fred, would you for even one moment direct your attention to the malicious falsehoods of such idle gossips as those you have referred to. They are a thousand times worse than the starving thieves that lurk around the dark lanes of the city, who steal only what is practically useful to themselves; while those others go about robbing the youthful and virtuous of their reputation, scattering the seeds of dissension, and fluttering in the sunshine of their folly like butterflies tasting of the sweets of every flower, but collecting no honey, therefore, my son, discard the venom of such villainous tongues."

"My confidence in Clara was so deep rooted that even all that I heard had scarcely any effect; but when I beheld personally that night their manner and appearance, and considered the coincident circumstances connected therewith, all that I had previously heard came rushing in upon my soul like an overwhelming flood and swallowed up every ounce of love that was in my heart."

"But I wish you to have an interview with Clara the next time she comes; it will restore the affection you have lost."

"It never will; nor do I desire to see her. I feel certain that she has been duping me with the flattery of a false affection, and then laughing at my simplicity in my absence. Even Charlie's actions towards me of late have also led me to feel suspicious of him. But my eyes are now awakened to the fact, therefore, I will never again speak to Clara, nor have anything whatever to do with her."

"Oh! Fred, you are too hasty in your assertions. Remember, my dear son, the circumstances and associations by which you are morally bound to each other. Remember the vows which you have consecrated upon the altar of your heart. Remember the condition to which you have brought her by your folly. Bear in mind that if you forsake her under the present circumstances that an indelible stain will remain for ever upon your character; but above all, my dear son, remember the link which binds you inevitably together,—a link of living humanity, akin to you both. Remember then that you are a father, and that she is a mother,—titles that were conferred upon you both by the birth of that little angel who now sheds a radiance over our household by his endearing presence. Then think of him, think of what I say, and you will outlive your imaginary ills and all the jealous flickerings of your heart; therefore, I again ask you, Fred, to comply with my request."

"I tell you again, mother, that I cannot. You need not think you can bait me with honied words. The insidious bee that fluttered around the flowers of my once happy affections has left its sting-wound within my heart."

"But love is its own physician. It alone can cure the ills it makes."

"But where there is no mutual love in the heart the wound is incurable."

"Why, Fred! do you for a moment doubt the veracity of Clara's love for you?"

"She has fooled me," he exclaimed. "She has forsaken me. She has made me reckless and desperate. I have ceased to love. I hate society. I even despise my very self. I shall seek for happiness in foreign lands as a substitute for what I have lost. I have decided upon going to Canada."

"Are you again really determined to leave us, Fred?"

"Yes, mother, I am more than determined. I am ready to leave to-morrow if I choose to go."

"If you go, my son, you will go against the wishes of your parents and every relative you have; and if you go in such a manner and under the present circumstances you cannot carry along with you 'a mother's blessing'."

"I don't care!" replied Fred haughtily. "Mother, you have no love for me. You have vindicated the guilty actions of Clara in opposition to my opinions. You have tantalised my soul by so doing. I shall no longer bear the insults, you heap upon me,"—and therewith Fred arose and made his exit abruptly from the room.

It appears that for several weeks past Fred had been ruminating upon going to Canada, reviving as it were his former intentions. His sore throat had originated from sudden exposure to the raw air of night on coming out from a crowded hall where he had been listening to a highly-colored lecture upon Canada and the Clerkenwell-Emigration-Scheme. The recent occurrence had made him still more determined, and also, afforded, as he considered, a sufficient plea to justify his purpose. That same evening, immediately after tea, his father being made aware of the design, took him aside and began to expostulate with him.

"Father, I have determined upon leaving and therefore your influence can have no effect," exclaimed Fred.

"But remember, my son, that text of Scripture which saith, 'Children obey your parents in all things.'"

"And let me add," cried Fred, "the following, from the same author, 'Fathers provoke not your children to anger lest they be discouraged.'"

"Ah, Fred! that sentence is not applicable to my case. As a duty of parental affection I only counsel you for your own good. Remember, my son, what Solomon says: 'A fool despiseth his father's instructions, but he who regardeth reproof is prudent. Correction is grievous to him who forsaketh the way, and he who hateth reproof shall die.'"

"I am no fool," ejaculated Fred, "I am of age. I shall, therefore, do as I please."

"Ah! Fred, Fred, I'm afraid your conduct will yet bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Perchance you may yet remember my words in a foreign land, without a kind friend to pity you in your distress. Ah, Fred! I hope, however, that you will not play the prodigal. Let me, therefore, read you the 15th chapter of Luke."

Without replying Fred abruptly left the room before his father had time to bring forth the Bible.

"Well, well, but this is really annoying," said Fred to himself after he had gone to his room. "Do they think that I have no mind of my own; so that I am to be mechanically guided by theirs. They favor Clara, and disrespect me because I do not favor her also. They say she loves me; if she does, my absence will test it. However, I will not allow myself to be treated as a captive. I shall and must have liberty, or else I die. I shall leave London this very night. I shall leave without shedding a tear or bidding a friend good bye. They will perhaps learn to love me better when I am gone." So saying, he began to prepare. Having filled two large carpet bags with such articles as were most necessary he moved quietly out of the house and by a back stairway reached the street. Having placed himself in a Hansom-cab stationed near by he was quickly conveyed to the station and in time for the night train to Liverpool.

On the following morning he embarked upon the Moravian, belonging to the Allan Line of Steamships, plying at that time of the season between Liverpool and Portland, in Maine, U.S.

The steam is up; anchors are weighed; and the vessel is soon riding out from the harbor towards mid-ocean. Although the air is cold, the deck is crowded with persons, among whom is Frederick Charlston, viewing the receding objects, and at length taking their farewell view of the dimly distant shores of their native land.

Day passed,—and the shadows of the night came down. The vessel was dashing over the foaming billows. The winds were whistling dolefully amid the sails. A feeling of loneliness crept over the soul of poor Fred, and he retired to his hammock. Visions of the past and future floated across his mind, and under the poetic mantle of inspiration he gave vent to his feelings in the following verses:

Thus sang the young poet. But before morning had dawned upon the billows of the ocean all the poetic fancy that was flickering in his half-phrenzied brain was driven out by a serious attack of sea-sickness. His emanations were then of a much grosser sort of material than the etherial-essence of poetic sentiment. During three long and wearied nights he continued in a most pitiable condition; his thoughts bewildered and fluctuating; at times, half regretting the course he had taken. The weather was tempestuous during the voyage; but, at length, in the afternoon of the twelfth day the vessel and all the passengers were safely landed at Portland. That evening Fred went on board the train for Montreal, but did not reach his destination until late in the afternoon of the second day, the journey having been prolonged by a severe snow storm. The cold was very intense. It was then that the words of Charles Holstrom occurred to his mind about the Canadian mountains of snow and the cold at 150 degrees of temperature below zero. He, however, arrived safely at Montreal, yet, cold, hungry and exhausted, and immediately engaged lodgings at the St. James' Hotel, where after a warm and hearty meal he soon experienced a more comfortable state of feelings.

Night's shadows had settled down over the fair city. The great bell of the cathedral of Notre Dame was scattering its solemn tones over the dim air. The city-lamps were sending forth their mellow radiance. Throngs of pedestrians were moving to and fro. Sleigh after sleigh was hurrying along, filled with joyous souls, and drawn by sprightly steeds dancing as if it were to the sounds of the merry-tinkling sleigh-bells. Fred looked out upon the gay panorama of Canadian city life. It was a new and attractive sight to him, and he felt an itching desire to try the novel experiment of taking a sleigh ride; but his spirit recoiled within itself when the fact was brought forcibly to his mind that it was "Christmas' Night." He thought of the many happy Christmas evenings which he had enjoyed amid the society of his friends in the good old city of London. A thousand associations flashed across his memory, filling his solitary mind with sadness and regrets. Around him everywhere he beheld gay crowds flickering with joyous excitement. More keenly than ever he then felt that he was only a stranger in a strange land, isolated from congenial society, and far removed from his friends and his once happy home. Conscience awakened his mind to the reality of his past folly, and his heart was wounded by its own stings. A heavy weight of sorrow pressed deeply upon his bosom. A deep sigh rolled out heavily upon his lips. Tears glistened in his eyes; and alas, poor Frederick Charlston again wished himself back to London.