Had the clerk of the weather been favoured with an express letter containing a heavy bribe, a more lovely day could not have been secured than that one in January which witnessed the marriage of Constance Channing to the Rev. William Yorke.

The ceremony was over, and they were home again; seated at breakfast with their guests. But only a few guests were present, and they for the most part close friends: the Huntleys; Lady Augusta Yorke, and Gerald; Mr. Galloway; and the Rev. Mr. Pye, who married them. It has since become the fashion to have a superfluity of bridesmaids: I am not sure that a young lady would consider herself legally married unless she enjoyed the privilege. Constance, though not altogether a slave to fashion, followed it, not in a very extensive degree. Annabel Channing, Ellen Huntley, and Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had been the demoiselles d’honneur. Charley’s auburn curls had grown again, and Charley himself was in better condition than when he arrived from his impromptu excursion. For grandeur, no one could approach Miss Huntley; her brocade silk stood on end, stiff, prim, and stately as herself. Judy, in her way, was stately too; a curiously-fine lace cap on her head, which had not been allowed to see the light since Charley’s christening, with a large white satin bow in front, almost as large as the cap itself. And that was no despicable size.

The only one who did not behave with a due regard to what might be expected of him, was Hamish—grievous as it is to have to record it. It had been duly impressed upon Hamish that he was to conduct Miss Huntley in to breakfast, etiquette and society consigning that lady to his share. Mr. Hamish, however, chose to misconstrue instructions in the most deplorable manner. He left Miss Huntley, a prey to whomsoever might pick her up, and took in Miss Ellen. It might have passed, possibly, but for Annabel, who appeared as free and unconcerned that important morning as at other times.

“Hamish, that’s wrong! It is Miss Huntley you are to take in; not Ellen.”

Hamish had grown suddenly deaf. He walked on with Ellen, leaving confusion to right itself. Arthur stepped up in the dilemma, and the tips of Miss Huntley’s white-gloved fingers were laid upon his arm. It would take her some time to forgive Hamish, favourite though he was. Later on, Hamish took the opportunity of reading Miss Annabel a private lecture on the expediency of minding her own business.

Hamish was in his new post now, at the bank: thoroughly well-established. He had not yet taken up his abode in the house. It was too large, he laughingly said, for a single man.

The breakfast came to an end, as other breakfasts do; and next, Constance came down in her travelling dress. Now that the moment of parting was come, Constance in her agitation longed for it to be over. She hurriedly wished them adieu, and lifted her tearful face last to her father.

Mr. Channing laid his hands upon her. “May God bless my dear child, and be her guide and refuge for ever! William Yorke, it is a treasure of great price that I have given you this day. May she be as good a wife as she has been a daughter!”

Mr. Yorke, murmuring a few heartfelt words, put Constance into the carriage, and they drove away.

“It will be your turn next,” whispered Hamish to Ellen Huntley, who stood watching the departure from one of the windows.

What Ellen would have said—whether she would have given any other answer than that accorded by her blushing cheeks, cannot be told. The whisper had not been quite so low as Hamish thought it, and it was overheard by Mr. Huntley.

“There may be two words to that bargain, Mr. Hamish.”

“Twenty, if you like, sir,” responded Hamish, promptly, “so that they be affirmative ones.”

“Ellen,” whispered Mr. Huntley, “would you have him, with all his gracelessness?”

Ellen seemed ready to fall, and her eyes filled. “Do not joke now, papa,” was all she said.

Hamish caught her hand, and took upon himself the task of soothing her. And Mr. Huntley relapsed into a smile, and did not hinder him.

But some one else was bursting into tears: as the sounds testified. It proved to be Lady Augusta Yorke. A few tears might well be excused to Mrs. Channing, on the occasion of parting with her ever-loving, ever-dutiful child, but what could Lady Augusta have to cry about?

Lady Augusta was excessively impulsive: as you have long ago learned. The happiness of the Channing family, in their social relations to each other; the loving gentleness of Mr. and Mrs. Channing with their children; the thorough respect, affection, duty, rendered to them by the children in return—had struck her more than ever on this morning. She was contrasting the young Channings with her own boys and girls, and the contrast made her feel very depressed. Thus she was just in a condition to go off, when the parting came with Constance, and the burst took place as she watched the carriage from the door. Had any one asked Lady Augusta why she cried, she would have been puzzled to state.

“Tell me!” she suddenly uttered, turning and seizing Mrs. Channing’s hands—“what makes the difference between your children and mine? My children were not born bad, any more than yours were; and yet, look at the trouble they give me! In what does it lie?”

“I think,” said Mrs. Channing, quietly, and with some hesitation—for it was not pleasant to say anything which might tacitly reflect on the Lady Augusta—“that the difference in most children lies in the bringing up. Children turn out well or ill, as they are trained; and in accordance with this rule they will become our blessing or our grief.”

“Ah, yes, that must be it,” acquiesced Lady Augusta. “And yet—I don’t know,” she rejoined, doubtingly. “Do you believe that so very much lies in the training?”

“It does, indeed, Lady Augusta. God’s laws everywhere proclaim it. Take a rough diamond from a mine—what is it, unless you polish it, and cut it, and set it? Do you see its value, its beauty, in its original state? Look at the trees of our fields, the flowers and fruits of the earth—what are they, unless they are pruned and cared for? It is by cultivation alone that they can be brought, to perfection. And, if God so made the productions of the earth, that it is only by our constant attention and labour that they can be brought to perfection, would He, think you, have us give less care to that far more important product, our children’s minds? They may be trained to perfectness, or they may be allowed to run to waste from neglect.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Lady Augusta. “But it is a dreadful trouble, always to be worrying over children.”

“It is a trouble that, in a very short time after entering upon it, grows into a pleasure,” said Mrs. Channing. “I am sure that there is not a mother, really training her children to good, who will not bear me out in the assertion. It is a pleasure that they would not be without. Take it from them, and the most delightful occupation of their lives is gone. And think of the reward! Were there no higher end to be looked for, it would be found in the loving obedience of the children. You talk of the trouble, Lady Augusta: those who would escape trouble with their children should be careful how they train them.”

“I think I’ll begin at once with mine,” exclaimed Lady Augusta, brightening up.

A smile crossed Mrs. Channing’s lips, as she slightly shook her head. None knew better than she, that training, to bear its proper fruit, must be begun with a child’s earliest years.

Meanwhile, the proctor was holding a conference with Mr. Channing. “Presents seem to be the order of the day,” he was remarking, in allusion to sundry pretty offerings which had been made to Constance. “I think I may as well contribute my mite—”

“Why, you have done it! You gave her a bracelet, you know,” cried Miss Annabel. For which abrupt interruption she was forthwith consigned to a distance; and ran away, to be teased by Tom and Gerald.

“I have something in my pocket which I wish to give to Arthur; which I have been intending for some time to give him,” resumed Mr. Galloway, taking from his pocket what seemed to be a roll of parchment. “Will you accept them, Arthur?”

“What, sir?”

“Your articles.”

“Oh! Mr. Galloway—”

“No thanks, my boy. I am in your debt far deeper than I like to be! A trifling thing such as this”—touching the parchment—“cannot wipe out the suspicion I cast upon you, the disgrace which followed it. Perhaps at some future time, I may be better able to atone for it. I hope we shall be together many years, Arthur. I have no son to succeed to my business, and it may be—But I will leave that until the future comes.”

It was a valuable present gracefully offered, and Mr. Channing and Arthur so acknowledged it, passing over the more important hint in silence.

“Children,” said Mr. Channing, as, the festivities of the day at an end, and the guests departed, they were gathered together round their fireside, bereft of Constance “what a forcible lesson of God’s mercy ought these last few months to teach us! Six months ago, there came to us news that our suit was lost; other troubles followed upon it, and things looked dark and gloomy. But I, for one, never lost my trust in God; it was not for a moment shaken; and if you are the children I and your mother have striven to bring up, you did not lose yours. Tom,” turning suddenly upon him, “I fear you were the only impatient one.”

Tom looked contrite. “I fear I was, papa.”

“What good did the indulgence of your hasty spirit do you?”

“No good, but harm,” frankly confessed Tom. “I hope it has helped me to some notion of patience, though, for the future, papa.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Channing. “Hope on, strive on, work on, and trust on! I believe that you made those your watchwords; as did I. And now, in an almost unprecedentedly short time, we are brought out of our troubles. While others, equally deserving, have to struggle on for years before the cloud is lifted, it has pleased God to bring us wonderfully quickly out of ours; to heap mercies and blessings, and a hopeful future upon us. I may truly say, ‘He has brought us to great honour, and comforted us on every side.’”

“I HAVE BEEN YOUNG, AND NOW AM OLD; AND YET SAW I NEVER THE RIGHTEOUS FORSAKEN, NOR HIS SEED BEGGING THEIR BREAD.”