I like to see fair skies and sunshine on the morning fixed for a journey. It seems to whisper a promise that satisfaction from that journey lies before it: a foolish notion, no doubt, but a pleasant one.

Never did a more lovely morning arise to gladden the world, than that fixed upon for Mr. and Mrs. Channing’s departure. The August sky was without a cloud, the early dew glittered in the sunbeams, bees and butterflies sported amidst the opening flowers.

Mr. Channing was up early, and had gathered his children around him. Tom and Charles had, by permission, holiday that morning from early school, and Constance had not gone to Lady Augusta Yorke’s. The very excitement and bustle of preparation had appeared to benefit Mr. Channing; perhaps it was the influence of the hope which had seated itself in his heart, and was at work there. But Mr. Channing did not count upon this hope one whit more than he could help; for disappointment might be its ending. In this, the hour of parting from his home and his children, the hope seemed to have buried itself five fathoms deep, if not to have died away completely. Who, in a similar position to Mr. Channing’s, has not felt this depression on leaving a beloved home?

The parting had been less sad but for the dark cloud hanging over Arthur. Mr. Channing had no resource but to believe him guilty, and his manner to him had grown cold and stern. It was a pleasing sight—could you have looked in upon it that morning—one that would put you in mind of that happier world where partings are not.

For it was to that world that Mr. Channing had been carrying the thoughts of his children in these, the last moments. The Bible was before him, but all that he had chosen to read was a short psalm. And then he prayed God to bless them; to keep them from evil; to be their all-powerful protector. There was not a dry eye present; and Charles and Annabel—Annabel with all her wildness—sobbed aloud.

He was standing up now, supported by Hamish, his left hand leaning heavily, also for support, on the shoulder of Tom. Oh! Arthur felt it keenly! felt it as if his heart would break. It was Tom whom his father had especially called to his aid; he was passed over. It was hard to bear.

He was giving a word of advice, of charge to all. “Constance, my pretty one, the household is in your charge; you must take care of your brothers’ comforts. And, Hamish, my son, I leave Constance to your care. Tom, let me enjoin you to keep your temper within bounds, particularly with regard to that unsatisfactory matter, the seniorship. Annabel, be obedient to your sister, and give her no care. And Charley, my little darling, be loving and gentle as you always are. Upon my return—if I shall be spared to return—”

“Father,” exclaimed Arthur, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, “have you no word for me?”

Mr. Channing laid his hand upon the head of Arthur. “Bless, oh bless this my son!” he softly murmured. “And may God forgive him, if he be indeed the erring one we fear!”

But a few minutes had elapsed since Mr. Channing had repeated aloud the petition in the prayer taught us by our Saviour—“Lead us not into temptation!” It had come quickly to one of his hearers. If ever temptation assailed a heart, it assailed Arthur’s then. “Not I, father; it is Hamish who is guilty; it is for him I have to bear. Hamish, whom you are caressing, was the true culprit; I, whom you despise, am innocent.” Words such as these might have hovered on Arthur’s lips; he had nearly spoken them, but for the strangely imploring look cast to him from the tearful eyes of Constance, who read his struggle. Arthur remembered One who had endured temptation far greater than this; Who is ever ready to grant the same strength to those who need it. A few moments, and the struggle and temptation passed, and he had not yielded to it.

“Children, I do not like these partings. They always sadden my heart. They make me long for that life where partings shall be no more. Oh, my dear ones, do you all strive on to attain to that blessed life! Think what would be our woeful grief—if such can assail us there; if memory of the past may be allowed us—should we find any one of our dear ones absent—of you who now stand around me! I speak to you all—not more to one than to another—absent through his own fault, his own sin, his own carelessness! Oh, children! you cannot tell my love for you—my anxious care!—lest any of you should lose this inconceivable blessing. Work on; strive on; and if we never meet again here—”

“Oh, papa, papa,” wildly sobbed Annabel, “we shall meet again! You will come back well.”

“I trust we shall! I do trust I may! God is ever merciful and good. All I would say is, that my life is uncertain; that, if it be His will not to spare me, I shall have but preceded you to that better land. My blessing be upon you, my children! God’s blessing be upon you! Fare you well.”

In the bustle of getting Mr. Channing to the fly, Arthur was left alone with his mother. She clung to him, sobbing much. Even her faith in him was shaken. When the rupture occurred between Mr. Yorke and Constance, Arthur never spoke up to say: “There is no cause for parting; I am not guilty.” Mrs. Channing was not the only one who had expected him to say this, or something equivalent to it; and she found her expectation vain. Arthur had maintained a studied silence; of course it could only tell against him.

“Mother! my darling mother! I would ask you to trust me still, but that I see how difficult it is for you!” he said, as hot tears were wrung from his aching heart.

Hamish came in. Arthur, not caring to exhibit his emotion for every one’s benefit, retired to a distant window. “My father is in, all comfortable,” said Hamish. “Mother, are you sure you have everything?”

“Everything, I believe.”

“Well—put this into your private purse, mother mine. You’ll find some use for it.”

It was a ten-pound note. Mrs. Channing began protesting that she should have enough without it.

“Mrs. Channing, I know your ‘enoughs,’” laughed Hamish, in his very gayest and lightest tone. “You’ll be for going without dinner every other day, fearing that funds won’t last. If you don’t take it, I shall send it after you to-morrow.”

“Thank you, my dear, considerate boy!” she gratefully said, as she put up the money, which would, in truth, prove useful. “But how have you been able to get it for me?”

“As if a man could not save up his odd sixpences for a rainy day!” quoth Hamish.

She implicitly believed him. She had absolute faith in her darling Hamish; and the story of his embarrassments had not reached her ear. Arthur heard all from his distant window. “For that very money, given to my mother as a gift from him, I must suffer,” was the rebellious thought that ran through his mind.

The fly started. Mr. and Mrs. Channing and Charley inside, Hamish on the box with the driver. Tom galloped to the station on foot. Of course the boys were eager to see them off. But Arthur, in his refined sensitiveness, would not put himself forward to make one of them; and no one asked him to do so.

The train was on the point of starting. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were in their places, certain arrangements having been made for the convenience of Mr. Channing, who was partially lying across from one seat to the other; Hamish and the others were standing round for a last word; when there came one, fighting his way through the platform bustle, pushing porters and any one else who impeded his progress to the rightabout. It was Roland Yorke.

“Haven’t I come up at a splitting pace! I overslept myself, Mr. Channing, and I thought I should not be in time to give you a God-speed. I hope you’ll have a pleasant time, and come back cured, sir!”

“Thank you, Roland. These heartfelt wishes from you all are very welcome.”

“I say, Mr. Channing,” continued Roland, leaning over the carriage window, in utter disregard of danger: “If you should hear of any good place abroad, that you think I might do for, I wish you’d speak a word for me.”

“Place abroad?” repeated Mr. Channing, while Hamish burst into a laugh.

“Yes,” said Roland. “My brother George knew a fellow who went over to Austria or Prussia, or some of those places, and dropped into a very good thing there, quite by accident. It was connected with one of the embassies, I think; five or six hundred a year, and little to do.”

Mr. Channing smiled. “Such windfalls are rare. I fear I am not likely to hear of anything of the sort. But what has Mr. Galloway done to you, Roland? You are a fixture with him.”

“I am tired of Galloway’s,” frankly confessed Roland. “I didn’t enjoy myself there before Arthur left, but I am ready to hang myself since, with no one to speak to but that calf of a Jenkins! If Galloway will take on Arthur again, and do him honour, I’ll stop and make the best of it; but, if he won’t—”

“Back! back! hands off there! Are you mad?” And amidst much shouting, and running, and dragging careless Roland out of danger, the train steamed out of the station.