Contrition.

At noontime Guly told Wilkins that if he would bring him a trifle of fruit from the Restaurant, or something of that kind, he would spend the time allowed him for dinner with his brother, and would much prefer it.

Wilkins very cordially assented, and Guly mounted the winding stairs slowly and thoughtfully, pushed open the old door at the head of the staircase, which was covered with the big-lettered advertisements, and stood before his sleeping brother.

The bar was drawn back; and, fully dressed, Arthur lay upon the humble bed. Perhaps the first plunge into dissipation leaves a deeper impression on youthful beauty, than the continued practice begun in older years.

Guly was startled at the change in his brother's features, which one night of excitement had wrought. He could see it now, as he lay there sleeping, more perfectly than when he had been with him in the morning, with his face full of ever-varying expression. There was a wasting upon the skin; deep black marks beneath the eyes; the lips were pale, and the nose seemed pinched; and his whole appearance was that of one convalescing after a severe fit of sickness.

Guly approached, and taking a low seat by the bedside, laid his face softly down beside his brother's on the pillow, and reaching over, clasped his fingers gently round one burning hand. He lay quite still, with his eyes fixed upon the sleeper's face. Who could tell, save He who knoweth all things, what thoughts were rushing through that throbbing heart, as it nestled there closer and closer, to all it held dear in that distant land?

The blue eyes filled suddenly full of tears, bright and pure, even as that boy's path of life had ever been, and dropped down, one by one, upon the pillow. There was no visible cause for them, but they kept falling, those pure bright tears, till the fair cheeks over which they fell were bathed, and the pillow damped.

Was there a shadow-like presentiment creeping over that young spirit then, telling him to nestle close, close, for the time was coming when those two hearts would throb no more beside each other, and that the waves of life's ocean would some day cast one upon the shore, and bear the other far out to sea? Even so! It was dim, ghost-like, and undefined; but still the shadow flitted there darkly!

The sleeper turned restlessly, and uttered a plaintive moan. It was not a moan of pain, but one of sympathy; as if the grief in the heart beside him had crept into his own. He lifted one arm wearily, and it fell back upon the pillow, and the unconscious fingers lifted the rings of jetty hair from the fevered brow.

That bright brow! that pale, proud brow! how it gleamed out in contrast with those glossy curls. Guly gazed upon it, then lifted his head and kissed it; and the tears, still quivering on his lashes, fell upon it—that brother's brow!

Arthur opened his eyes, and gazed up steadily at the face bent over him. There was something in the expression of that face which went over his heart like a strain of touching music. He could not bear that it should be turned away from him, or that he should lose it, and he raised both hands, and, laying them among the silken curls, held it there.

"Oh, Guly! Guly! do you know all?"

"Dear Arthur! don't speak of this."

"Yet you have sorrowed for me; you have grieved, and been silent, and unreproachful. Oh, Guly! what a wretch I am!"

"Hush, Arthur! oh, don't, don't!"

The tears fell down again, unrestrainedly, upon that pale brow, gleaming up from the jetty locks, and for a moment neither spoke.

"I feel, Guly, as though I had taken a long leap into sin—such a long one, that I shall never get back; and everything seems at work to keep me in it. What shall I ever, ever do—I am so weak—so—so—"

"Oh, Arthur, look up—look ever up. God's finger points out the way to you from the sky; trust yourself to its holy guidance, and be strong."

"Guly, I can't. It seems a long while since I prayed at all—since yesterday I seem to have lived an age, and it is black, all black!"

"Nay, Arthur, you have wandered a few hours from the fold, and your sight is darkened; but the Great Shepherd calls to you with His gentle voice to return. Listen, and obey."

"I should only fall again."

"Trust, and you shall be strengthened."

"Oh, Guly, I have not your mind nor heart. I cannot be patient, and meek, and charitable, through all things, as you can; I have so much pride that I cannot calmly bear reproof, and here I am fretted, and crushed, and ridiculed into sin all the time, and am too weak to make resistance."

"Try, and remember in your heart how we are here. Bear in your mind that we no longer have the wealth or influence that we once had; and that if we ever are to have them again, depends upon the way we acquit ourselves here. Learn to bear and forbear; and in the end, Arthur, you will come out so brightly, with your pride perhaps subdued, but not conquered, and we shall once more be happy."

Arthur sighed.

"And oh, Arthur! oh, my brother! think, we two are all to each other here. We have nought to lean upon save each other's love and Him. Dear Arthur, if you should—if one of us should be led into temptation, and should fall, and should go down into the pit of sin, what a blank would be the existence of the other! Oh! let us pray that our hearts may be bound together, and that no shadow may be allowed to fall upon or divide us."

"Oh, Guly, Guly!"

Arthur started up, and throwing his arms about his brother's form, as he crept up closer to his side, drew the bright head down upon his bosom, and held it there, rocking backwards and forwards where he sat.

"Pray God, indeed!" he murmured, earnestly, lifting his swimming eyes to Heaven, "that I may sin no more. That I may ever keep bright the links of this dear love, which is to us as the thread of life; and oh! may He whose ways are the ways of righteousness, take us by the hand, like little children, and guide our steps aright."

"Amen! Amen!"